The Magicite War: A History of Final Fantasy VI
by Sepharad
Summary: Part I: 'Empire Built on Stone.' Relations between the kingdoms of Doma and Maranda are weakening, and the threat of war is very real. Maranda's General Gestahl is the greatest diplomat of his time, but will even he be able to stop a war from erupting?
1. Part I - Chapter 1: A King's Crutch

Long ago, the War of the Magi   
reduced the world to a   
scorched wasteland, and magic   
simply ceased to exist. 

A Millennium has passed, a thousand years   
of rebirth and rebuilding.   
Iron, gunpowder, and steam engines have   
been rediscovered. Where once there   
had been magic, there is now   
Science, Industry, and Government . . .   
Technology, Money, and Power . . .   
Death, Greed, and Corruption. 

Civilizations rise and crumble   
in 1000 years, but one   
thing remains constant:   
People do not learn from past mistakes. 

In a manner of speaking,   
is magical power really different from   
wealth or politics?   
Do they both inevitably lead to   
Death, Greed, and Corruption? 

Can it be that those in power   
are on the verge of   
repeating a senseless   
and deadly mistake? 

This is the beginning of  
**Empire Built on Stone**

Being the first part of 

**The Magicite War: A History of   
Final Fantasy VI**

**Part I - Chapter 1: The King's Crutch.**

In the days before the long journey to Doma, when the ships were being loaded with supplies, the guards' armour was being polished - again - and the final details were being arranged by carrier pigeon, the General Eric Gestahl was paid a visit by his king. 

Anthony, King of Maranda, let himself into Gestahl's chambers unannounced. Despite the summer heat, he was clad in his finest royal garb, as always. His dark green, high-necked coat was buttoned all the way up the collar, and his deep red cape hung down to the backs of his knees, where his polished black boots met his duller black pants. 

Gestahl almost shook his head in disbelief at the sight of the King. He himself had on only a pair of baggy, white pants, and sweat was rolling from him in buckets. Still, he quickly stood at attention. 

"Good day, my Liege," Gestahl said in a steady, yet humble voice. "You honour me with your presence." 

The King nodded, gestured for Gestahl to be at ease. 

Gestahl immediately rushed to the large wooden wardrobe in one corner of the room. "This is an unexpected audience, my Liege." He grabbed out the first shirt he saw, a yellow one with golden buttons, and hastily pulled it on. "Had I known you were coming, I'd have been better-" 

Anthony raised a hand, and Gestahl stopped speaking. "I won't be here for long, as I have business to attend to here in Albrook before I return to the Capitol. I just want to make sure you're ready, that you know what to say when you speak with Duane Doma." Anthony's eyes narrowed. "He can be a very hard man to negotiate with. Very adamant in his opinions. I suggest you mention my name as little as possible; he doesn't much like me." 

Gestahl strode back to the centre of the room while buttoning his shirt. He stopped, and faced his King. "I will try to heed that, and all the other advice you have given me." Ha! Anthony's 'advice' over the last few days had almost been enough to make Gestahl laugh out loud. "Although, I will not be able to negotiate in your name without using it a few times. But don't worry. I know how to talk to such people. Sometimes, a little groveling over dinner can get you a long way." 

The King blinked; he had never groveled. He didn't understand the power in groveling. "Yes. Yes, well remember that these are peace negotiations, but not a surrender." His voice lowered at that last word. He'd never surrendered anything, either. Especially before a war even started. 

Gestahl knew what Anthony was thinking. "You know a well as I do that we cannot war with Doma. Their army of Samurai is the finest military force in the world, not to mention the fact that they are close with Figaro. We would be beaten in weeks. Sometimes, peace is the best strategy in a war." 

"Yes, right." The King sounded disappointed! Gestahl wanted to roll on the floor laughing. But he managed to keep his cool. The King spoke again. "Well, as I said, I can't stay long. I must return to Maranda tonight, and I have other things to deal with. I will not see you again until after you return. Remember what rests on your shoulders, Gestahl." 

Gestahl stood at attention and watched Anthony's back until the door closed behind him, then chuckled and sank back into a large leather armchair. 

Anthony was a fool's fool, and Gestahl wasn't the only one who knew it. He had been born into power, but was too stupid to know how to handle it, even with his years of training in the affairs of state. He thought that being a King meant fighting in wars, constantly expanding his borders. Fortunately, he was smart enough to leave most of his responsibilities to others. Gestahl was one of those others: General Eric of House Gestahl, Commander of Maranda's armed forces and Navy, master strategist and leader of men. And the greatest diplomat the world had seen in generations. How many times had Gestahl saved Anthony's kingdom after the king angered other more powerful leaders? 

_And this time will be no exception_, thought Gestahl. He stood up from the leather armchair; it was far too hot. Stripping off the shirt and throwing it over the back of the chair, he made his way to the huge bed and fell onto it. It was an extremely hot day, even within the grey, usually cool walls of his bed chamber in the Royal House, a sort of grand inn for nobles; every major city in Maranda had one. The large window on the opposite wall from the bed was wide open, as well. It was the kind of heat that made it difficult to stay awake, yet impossible to fall asleep. 

Gestahl lay supine on the bed for several minutes, thinking of the recent past, and of the near future. 

The Kingdom of Maranda, which occupied the whole of the world's southernmost continent, had fallen out of favour with Doma three years past, after refusing to honour a long-standing trade agreement between the two nations. The mountain region on the east of Maranda contained the world's richest iron and mythril mines. Doma had had access to these mines, in return for gold and silver from their mines. At least, that was what most people knew about the deal. In reality, Maranda's exports in that deal were much more valuable than Doma's; while not worth as much as gold or silver, iron and mythril were far more useful because they could be made into many useful things. Maranda's real benefit had been certain political promises from Doma, such as military aid, had there ever been a need. 

The deal had been in place for twenty years before Anthony - against Gestahl's advisement, of course - refused to continue to honour the agreement, stopped allowing Doma to mine in Maranda. He had said that Maranda could use the iron and mythril more than gold and silver; true enough, but an immaterial point, since Maranda had its own mines as well, and more than enough of the resources. 

As if that hadn't been enough, Anthony turned down two offers from King Duane Doma for meetings to discuss the dispute - including one invitation delivered by Doma himself, a great insult under Doman custom. Then, seven months later, when Anthony had finally agreed to talk with Duane, a fight broke out. Four punches were thrown: three by Anthony, and one by Duane Doma's retainer. Anthony's diplomatic immunity, and Doma's unbelievable respect for it, were the only reasons the King of Maranda was still alive today. 

After that, tension had escalated until war became an impending threat. War with Doma meant almost certain defeat, and even Anthony knew that, as little as he liked the idea of not fighting, for reasons (maybe) known only to himself. The man truly was an idiot. He had tried to remedy the situation himself, but only succeeded in further offending Doma. Now, at the last possible time, he had charged Gestahl to make one last attempt to prevent a war. In two days, Gestahl would be on a ship to Doma. The journey would take three weeks, unless the winds at sea were especially strong. He doubted he would be so lucky. It would take all of his luck to mollify King Doma, as well as all of his skill. 

At one point, Gestahl had considered defecting once he reached Doma, and letting Maranda be conquered. If any leader deserved to have his country taken, and his life probably ended, it was Anthony. He was simply a very bad ruler, and perhaps it would be his due for the countless mistakes he'd made. 

_ No,_ thought Gestahl, turning over on the bed, trying and failing to find a cool spot on the deep purple pillow. _When Anthony is deposed, it will not be Doma who takes his throne._

Laughing quietly, Gestahl turned his head to glance at the clock on the bedside table. 

"Five-fifty-three," he read; he was one for precision. It had only been ten minutes since Anthony had come to the room. In the heat, it had seemed like hours to Gestahl. 

Slowly, and with a groan, Gestahl sat, then stood up from the bed. He stretched his arms out to either side as he stepped across the room to the wardrobe. He picked out a white suit, not quite a uniform, but not casual. He would be going out that night, to make some final preparations for the journey. More responsibilities that came with being a King's walking-stick. 

***************


	2. Part I - Chapter 2: Elsewhere in Albrook

**Part I - Chapter 2: Elsewhere in Albrook**

Albrook was the second largest city in Maranda, behind only the capital city - also named Maranda - in terms of size, wealth, and beauty. With its large harbour, Albrook was the economic heart of the nation, a heart that beat with imports and exports, buying and selling, pumping the blood of society: money. Well over two dozen ships were tied or anchored at the dock, being loaded or unloaded, or waiting for their turn. Manufactured goods and natural resources, building supplies and food. Even things that could be produced in Maranda were often shipped from outside instead; one of those things that only economists understand. 

Trade was not the only purpose the ships served. With every ship that arrived in Albrook, a dozen-or-so people arrived, ready to start a new life in a new land. Or try to, anyway; Maranda was not exactly the land of opportunity. For every ship that arrived with a dozen hopeful souls, another ship carried away a dozen broken ones. People were constantly going and coming, coming and going. These ships played major roles in every life in Maranda. 

There were no ships flying the blue banner of Doma in Albrook's harbour. 

Abital Palazzo didn't know much about politics, but he knew what everyone knew. Maranda and Doma were having problems with each other, the sort that often lead to war. And Doma never lost a war. That knowledge alone was enough to make any citizen nervous. Now, the King was sending representatives to Doma, a final attempt to stop war. Everyone hoped it would work. _Hoped_, but generally, did not _expect._

That was why Abital had been spending so much time at the docks recently, getting to know some of the workers there. He had come to Albrook from Nikeah fifteen years ago, another one of those people looking for a new beginning. He had found his, unlike most of the others who came like him. He owned a shop in Albrook - not a huge outfit, but successful enough. He had been married seven years, and had a six-year-old son. His life had turned out better than he had ever expected, lying awake on the deck of that ship fifteen years past. 

If a war broke out, he would sell the shop, take his family, and leave. He would not stay and be drafted into the army, forced to leave his family, his reason for being, to die in an impossible war. He still had family in Nikeah. They would stay there for as long as they needed to, maybe start another business. Or maybe not; there were more merchants and hawkers in Nikeah than there were people to buy from them. But anything would be better than staying in Maranda during a war with Doma. 

The slight breeze blowing in from the water hardly even shifted Abital's long, brown coat. It did nothing to relieve the heat. There hadn't been a summer this hot in years. Abital felt sorry for the men who had to work out on the ships all day. 

Adjusting his shirt collar, which was already untied and opened more than a few inches, and wiping sweat from the underside of his newly-shaven chin, Abital made his way north toward the city. The sun wouldn't be down for another two hours, and he didn't think he'd last much longer outside beneath it. 

The wide road from the harbour to the populated area of the city was built with cracked and lifted paving stones, damaged by years of supporting heavy wagons. More recently, they had even seen a few of those new steel machines that move by steam instead of chocobos, although they were rare. The road's condition improved once there were tall, mostly wooden buildings on either side of it. It was a short road, anyway. It only took five minutes to walk from the harbour to the city proper, and five more to reach the café, which was Abital's destination. 

The sign above the door read "Café," but this particular institution was not one of those. In Abital's mind, a café was a place where you went to eat lunch and drink tea. This place was known to those who frequented it as "Denny's Pub and Blood Clinic," in reference to the drinking and blood-spilling that went on inside, and the barkeep, Denis Denahl. 

Upon entering Denny's, one could observe the darker underside of society. This was an economic centre as legitimate as any shop or café in Albrook - some said that Denis made more money from this pub than any shop owner or merchant made. Abital wouldn't argue. As for the people, the pub was packed with drunkards. Every seat at every table was occupied, and a lot of the floor space, as well. Those who weren't passed out on their tables, or on the floor, were busy with drinking competitions, collecting bets on said drinking competitions, or staring at the girls who brought the drinks. And the sun hadn't even gone down yet. The clean-shaven, well groomed Abital, in his clean grey pants, clean, if sweat-soaked white shirt, and his clean, short brown hair, certainly looked out of place. 

Abital had no use for people who got drunk in pubs. He quickly scanned the room, trying not to see some of what was going on, and spotted Denis by a table near the far wall, seemingly trying to make two drunks leave the pub; Abital couldn't see why, since everyone else in the place must have been equally hammered. Denis glanced in Abital's direction - he always paid attention to who was entering and leaving his pub - and then started toward him, seeming to forget about the two men. They seemed to forget about him, too. 

Denis was a large man. His sleeveless, grey shirt fit tight over a rock-hard chest and stomach, and his exposed arms were huge. His chin was square, hard, and covered with stubble, and a white scar ran up the left side of his face to his forehead, where dark skin met black, greasy hair. He looked like a thug. 

Abital met Denis in the middle of the room, and the two shook hands. 

"Hey, buddy!" said Denis, laughing. "You haven't been in here in quite a while. How've ya' been?" 

"I've been fine, Denis." Abital looked around the room. "And I see your business is booming, as always." 

Denis grinned. He was only missing one tooth, and the rest were all clean. "Sometimes this business is an . . . unpleasant one. But it pays." His voice did not match his look. It had a high pitch. He gestured with his head toward the two men at the back table. "Those two have been there all day. About an hour ago, they started offering money to my serving girls for . . . well, you know . . . services we don't offer here." Denis grinned again. Abital smiled and shook his head. "They weren't getting anywhere until about ten minutes ago, when one of them offered three thousand GP!" Denis laughed. It sounded like a duck. "I had to go put a stop to it when I saw the considering look on the girls' faces." 

Abital smile again. Denis had an intimidating look - he needed it, in his business - but he was a good man. Most bar owners would probably have asked for a cut of the three thousand gold pieces. Denis' pub was a dirty place, and the people who went there were no good, but he'd never let anything happen to his employees and friends. 

Denis put his hands on his hips and looked around the room as he talked. "So, what brings you to my filthy hole this evening?" 

Abital rubbed his forehead, and his hand came away wet. "I just had to get out of the sun." 

"This is a blisterin' hot summer." Denis shook his head. "It doesn't affect me much, but I feel sorry for some people. My brother Paul is a farmer out in the country. He's been having a hard time in this drought. He's prayin' we'll see some rain so he'll have a harvest in the fall." 

Abital nodded, mentioned that he would pray to the gods as well. They stood quietly for a few minutes then, looking around with nothing to say. 

Denis spoke up, "You want a drink?" 

"No," answered Abital, looking at the floor. 

Denis nodded. "My father is in this week." Abital's head shot up. "He's upstairs. Came in yesterday from Maranda. I didn't get a chance to talk to you bef-" 

The sound of breaking glass and louder yelling from the drunkards meant trouble. Denis rolled his eyes. 

"I can see you've got other business to attend to." Abital glanced across the room at the group of howling men surrounding the two fighters. "Upstairs, you say?" 

Denis pointed to a door on the far side of the room, then punched Abital lightly in the shoulder, smiled, and made his way through the crowd. 

Abital stayed near the walls as he moved to the large wooden door that led to a stairwell. He closed the door behind him and climbed the twenty stairs in total darkness until he reached the second door at the top. The door was very heavy, and when he closed it behind him, not a sound from downstairs could be heard. The hallway was quiet, and softly illuminated by several burning lanterns on the brown wooden walls. His shadow danced with the flames as he walked, past a door that stood slightly ajar and led to Denis' small room, to the closed door at the end of the hallway. He reached it, and knocked softly. 

"Dibon?" he said, almost in a whisper. "Dibon, it's Abital." 

He heard the sound of a lock being slid, then the door swung open. Through the opening, Abital could see the whole chamber. It was plain, and small. There was one bed in the far corner, which looked as if it had not been remade in days. A small night table held a lantern, the only one in the room, and a Kings board with the twenty-eight pieces set up for a game. Not far from the bed was the only other piece of furniture in the room, a large, brown armchair. Dibon, however, was nowhere to be seen. 

Abital stepped across the threshold slowly. He had heard someone slide the lock, and seen the door open, and yet . . . no one. Carefully, he moved further into the room, wishing he had something with which to defend himself. Silence filled the room. 

"HEY ABITAL!!" 

Abital nearly hit the ceiling as Dibon Denahl leapt out from behind the door. It took a few seconds for him to realize what had happened, and he leaned on the wall, a hand on his chest, breathing deep, and watching Dibon collapse into the chair, laughing like a madman. 

Dibon was Denis' father, and there was a resemblance. Despite being forty years older, in his sixties now, Dibon was a head taller than his son, which was really saying something; Denis was a tall man. He was not so wide as his son, but still much larger than most men his age. His once dark hair was now streaked with grey, and cut shorter than it had been. His beard was grey, short, and pointed, and he had shaved his long mustache since Abital had last seen him. And he was red in the face, trying to stop laughing. 

Abital stood up straight and adjusted his coat. He should have expected something like this. 

Dibon managed to stop laughing. "I remember when you first arrived in Albrook - you'd been here about three months, I suppose - and I did this to you in my inn. I swear, you looked like you wanted to kill me!" 

A smile broke on Abital's face. When he had first arrived in Albrook, a young man with nothing, Dibon had taken him in and supported him. Dibon had owned a successful inn at the time, and Abital was paid to look after guests' chocobos, or clean rooms, or serve food and drink in the social room - which at times had seemed more like Denis' pub than a respected inn. Denis hadn't owned the pub then, however; he had been only ten years old when Abital arrived. He didn't get the pub until the same time Abital bought his shop. Dibon sold his inn and gave half of the money to each of them, to be used in starting a business of their own. If Abital had started a new life in Albrook, then Dibon was his new father. He lived in the city of Maranda, now. Getting to see him was a rare treat, despite the tricks he liked to pull. 

"Well?" said Dibon, "Did you come up here to talk, or just to stare at my wall?" 

Abital blinked; he had lost himself in thought. He stepped to the bed and sat on it. "If I wasn't so happy to see you, I might give you that deadly look again." 

Dibon chuckled. "And if I wasn't so happy to see you scared out of your wits, I wouldn't have gone to all the trouble!" 

Abital sighed. "You're a strange man, Dibon." 

"It's the only way for an old man to keep his life interesting!" Dibon slouched in his chair and folded his hands on his lap. "But since a young man's life is surely still more interesting than mine, we'll start with you. What have you been up to?" 

Abital gave a short laugh. "Nothing of much interest. Just running the store and raising the family." A look of pride washed over his face. "I've saved enough money to send my son to one of the private schools in the capital city next year! He's been learning from tutors, which is more than most children are blessed with, but in the city he would be taught by the greatest scholars in the world! Just think what he could do, what he could be!" 

"They accept children as young as your son?" 

"He'll be seven by then, which is the minimum age for some of the schools in Maranda," replied Abital. "They won't start him off on the history of the world, but it's good to get them in early." 

Dibon smiled. "And you're sure you want your seven-year-old son living in the same city as me?" 

"I wouldn't have it any other way. As long as you don't give him a heart attack!" Abital laughed. 

The two men talked at length about this and that, exchanging stories about life and reminiscing about the past. After a time, the conversation became more serious. 

"Do you really think it will come to war?" Abital had removed his coat, and his wet shirt was untied all the way. He sat on the edge of the bed, leaning with his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands. "I don't claim to know much about these matters, but surely the King would not go to war with Doma. Surely he knows better than that!" 

Dibon sat in the armchair, looking at Abital over steepled fingers. He lived in Maranda, the capital city. _He_ knew about these matters. "Affairs of state are often above and beyond logical thought, m'boy," he said. "Especially when your leader is _below_ logical thought." Dibon chuckled. "Anthony is known to be slightly lacking in leadership qualities and governing ability." 

"But do you think there will be a war?" Abital asked again. "I know that a representative of Maranda is leaving for Doma on one of the ships in the harbour, to present Anthony's plan for peace-" He was cut off by a quick laugh from Dibon. "What?" 

"'Anthony's plan?' Ha! The representative is Eric of House Gestahl, and the 'plan' is almost certainly his, not Anthony's. I also suspect that the 'plan' basically consists of asking Doma what he wants, and then giving it to him." He laughed again, a grim laugh, and shook his head. 

"Gestahl is the general of Maranda's military, isn't he?" Gestahl was quite famous; Abital knew of him. 

Dibon nodded. "That he is. He has a mind for war, but also a mind for peace. Unusual, both in a single man. He stayed at my inn once, about twenty years ago. All of Maranda's nobility was in Albrook for a festival, even King Jaxin, Anthony's father (now _there_ was a great ruler). All the rooms in the Royal House were taken, and Gestahl was one of the nobles left out. House Gestahl was a minor House at the time, you see. It was before he became general. Anyway, he stayed at my inn for the three nights of the festival. He was none too happy about being left out of the Royal House, but he made the best of it. He talked to all the other guests. He and I talked and played Kings at night. He's good t it, too; beat me almost half the time." 

"So, you think he can talk to Doma?" 

"Well, if anyone can. It wouldn't be the first time. He's the one who negotiated peace with Jidoor fifteen or sixteen years ago, after the newly-crowned Anthony 'offended' their Prime Minister - by almost killing his daughter. I don't know how Gestahl did it that time. He must have only been twenty-five or thirty years old, then. Another thing I don't see is how Anthony kept his throne." Dibon laughed loudly. "Another time, about ten years ago, Anthony was in Figaro trying to buy a supply of those 'autocrossbows' that had just been invented. Well, he accidentally shot the Chancellor of Figaro in the foot with one. All of the guards drew their swords, which caused Anthony's to draw theirs. There was a battle, and an international incident. Gestahl cleared that up, too." 

Abital wanted to laugh, but he didn't think it was right to laugh at something that had almost caused a war, thousands of deaths. Instead, he said, "I'm surprised Anthony lets this information be known. It makes him seem quite the fool." 

"Oh, he tries to cover it up," laughed Dibon; he obviously had no problem laughing at it. "It's not hard to dig it up, though, if you know where to look. That was all over Maranda in a week after it happened, anyway." 

"Well, if Gestahl fails, I'm leaving Maranda. I'll go to Nikeah with my wife and son and stay with my family there. I won't be drafted into the army." 

Dibon's face was all seriousness again. "I don't blame you. I wouldn't want to fight either, if I were young. So much death." He cringed, shook his head. 

Abital stared at the floor. "No. Especially not against Doma. Fighting would be futile." 

Dibon sniffed. "Fighting is always pointless. Reason and communication are always better alternatives, as Gestahl knows. 

"And Doma did lose a war once. After the War of the Magi, people lived in fear of the powerful Mage Warriors who lived among them. Doma was the first kingdom to raise an army against them - even though they didn't do anything; fear and violence clouds judgement and logical thought - and the Mage Warriors beat them down like a tsunami against an army of straw houses." 

Abital burst out laughing. "Oh, Dibon. I both love and respect you, but everyone knows that those are just myths and fairy tales!" 

Dibon's eyes narrowed and he stared at Abital with hard eyes. "Are they?" 

Abital swallowed and paused for a moment, then his grin returned. Another of Dibon's jokes. "Of course they are. There were never any 'Mage Warriors,' and there was never a 'War of the Magi.' Mage Warriors . . . Ha!" 


	3. Part I - Chapter 3: A Strange Visitor in...

**Part I - Chapter 3: A Strange Visitor in the Night**

Strago Magus was relieved to let his worn-out body fall onto the bed. It was well past midnight in Thamasa, and he had just arrived home from a hard day on the job. Being the only doctor in a town, even such a small one as this, made for a tiring and time consuming profession. There had been an outbreak of Silkenpetal Fever recently; not a terribly serious disease, but bad enough when three in five people in the town had it. There were also two men with Logan's Disease, which was very serious. They were quarantined in small huts a mile from the town and a mile from each other, with one of Strago's two students - the only other people in the town interested in medicine, and thus, his only help - watching over each of them. Of course, the students weren't confident in their own ability, and insisted that Strago make trips to the huts four times a day - four times every day! - to check up on them. In addition, there were the normal aches, pains, and broken bones that needed his attention, and it seemed that there were more children every day, getting into every sort of trouble. Just that morning - or, the previous morning, technically - he had been shaken awake by a man who had had two teeth knocked out. Strago had stuffed a wad of gauze in his mouth and told him to leave, but somehow the man had managed to remind him that he had to go to the huts. And that was how the day had started, the busiest day Strago could remember. He had just now returned from the fourth trip to the cabins. Both students had been asleep when he arrived! They had certainly been wide awake when he left each of them. 

It wasn't that Strago didn't enjoy his job; he did. He loved helping people. Granted, the three-mile trip four times a day was not enjoyable, and the work was stressful sometimes, but he still loved his job. Sometimes he just felt like there was so much to do that he'd never get it all done if he lived for a thousand years. He felt sorry for doctors in bigger cities. They probably had several times as many patients as he did; although, they had nurses, and he was sure that there was more than one doctor in big cities. He supposed that they didn't have magic, though, but there was only so much even it could do. With magic, Strago could give strength and energy back to weak patients, help allay any pain they might feel, but he couldn't magically cure any disease with the snap of a finger, like his ancestors probably could. They could do things that he couldn't begin to dream about. 

Strago was a descendent of the Mage Warriors of legend. Almost everyone in Thamasa was. A thousand years ago, in the War of the Magi, the Mage Warriors had fought alongside the "normal" humans against the Espers, beings of pure magical energy that had lost control of their power. Eventually, when it seemed that the Espers would claim the world, or destroy it, they left. No one really knew where they went, but they were gone, and that was all that mattered. 

The war had lasted ten to twenty years - records from that era were virtually non-existent, so the exact length was lost - and unbelievable damage had been done. Thousands, or even millions of people had been killed, and the land had been raped and reshaped. People blamed magic. The Mage Warriors used magic, so they were outcast. Society rebuilt itself, and they were left in the ashes. Eventually, great armies were sent against them. The armies were crushed easily at first, but they kept coming, relentlessly hunting down and killing Mage Warriors, like a hunter tracks and kills an animal. Eventually, the few remaining Mage Warriors were forced into hiding. In the Veldt. Like animals. They established a village near the Veldt, across a river and over a mountain range, on a long peninsula. That was the origin of the village of Thamasa. 

Since then, the Mage Warriors' magic dwindled with every new generation. One thousand years later, "Mage Warriors" were to their ancestors as normal humans to Espers. Strago was the most powerful living Mage, as far as he knew, and even he knew that his power was pitiful. 

"Do you sleep with your eyes open now, Strago?" 

Strago gave a start. He had been lost in thought and had not heard his old friend enter the room. 

"Oh, Gungho. It's only you." Strago's voice sounded tired, and he stifled a yawn. 

Gungho just laughed, a sound muffled by his thick copper-coloured mustache and a beard that reached down his neck. That absurd pink robe he always wore was enough to make Strago laugh most of the time. But not now. "Most men at least take off their cloak and boots for sleep." 

"What in the name of the Goddess are you doing here at-" Strago glanced at the clock on the night table, "- one-thirty in the morning?!" Strago's voice was muffled by his own facial hair, even thicker than Gungho's. Strago's brown beard reached halfway to his waist and, as he often pointed out, had less grey in it than the younger man's. 

"I wanted to see if you'd have a drink," replied Gungho in his unique voice that croaked like a frog when he spoke too high or too low, "maybe have a few games of Kings or cards or something." 

"I don't believe you, sometimes." Strago shook his head with a sigh. "You know what kind of day I've had!" 

Gungho laughed again. "I remember when you were younger, we'd stay out all night at Ebbott's Rock looking for the Hidon. You'd never get tired." Gungho let out a depressed sigh and looked at the floor. "But now . . . now you're an old man. But I'm young as ever, and ready for a good, strong drink and some gambling!" 

Strago could only shake his head again. Both he and Gungho were in their forties, and he was only five years older. "Gungho, I'd love to go downstairs and play a few games with you, but I'm very tired. I have to get up early tomorrow morning - well, this morning I guess I should say - so let me get some sleep and later, if I have time, I'll-" 

Strago was cut off by the sound of footsteps on the stairs, a stumble, a curse, then more footsteps. Seconds later, a young man of about twenty - Elam, Strago thought his name was - burst through the door at a run and barely managed to stop before crashing into Gungho like a blind chocobo into a fence. He barely even noticed. Gungho looked ready to lay into the boy, but he didn't have time. 

"Dr. Strago Magus, sir," the boy stammered, "there's a guy here, in the town, downstairs - er - outside - which is downstairs, but - well, he's hurt. Badly, I think; yes, badly. Bleeding terribly. His life's in danger, I should say. Yes, real ugly scene." 

Strago was already dragging Elam to the door by the arm. He was glad he hadn't taken his clothes off for sleep. He still wore his black boots and red cloak over his baggy red pants and bright blue shirt - as was the style in Thamasa - and was ready for the chill of Thamasa at night. "Stop your stuttering and stammering and lead me to this man!" 

"Right. Right, okay. Right. This way." Elam bounded down the stairs two or three at a time, and Strago and Gungho were not far behind. He led them into the dusty dirt streets of Thamasa, through the dark night - the moon was almost invisible, and Elam came close to running into the tree at the centre of town - and they moved toward the inn. 

As they reached the large wooden building that was Thamasa's only inn, Strago shot ahead of the other two men. He almost seemed to run right through the inn's heavy door in his haste. 

The inn's small social room was packed with people wearing pyjamas or underclothes. It seemed like the whole town was there, although that was impossible. Strago charged into the crowd as a rabid bull might, muttering things like, "Bloody people don't know how to treat a doctor, " or, "I think they want the man to die," between screaming, "Out of my way! You're not a bloody roadblock!" He pushed through the throng, followed closely by Gungho, and Elam, who was apologizing to everyone the older men pushed or bumped. When they finally broke through the wall of humanity to the inn's sleeping area, they could only stare with wide eyes. 

The man on the bed should have been dead. He wore a crimson mask of blood on his face, and his hair and clothes - or, what was left of his hair and clothes - were stained and wet with it. He appeared to have only one eye left. His arms and legs were no better, the torn flesh hanging from exposed bone, dripping. He had a gaping wound on his side. 

Strago had never seen anything like it. He could feel the juices in his stomach crawling up his throat, but he swallowed them down. From the sounds and smells coming from behind him, he could tell that some hadn't been able to keep theirs down. 

"He . . . crawled into town like that," said Elam, slowly, "somehow." 

Strago swallowed again, then turned to face the crowd. "There's not a thing I can do for him." Strago shivered. What could have done that to the man? Was he a hunter on the Veldt, attacked by some beast? No. No one could make it from the Veldt to Thamasa in a condition half as bad as that man's. "He is already dead. He is beyond-" 

A moan cut Strago off, and he spun around. The body on the bed was stirring and making noise. It coughed, sending blood flying out of its mouth, then it turned its head, staring at Strago with its one remaining eye. 

Strago was uncomfortable standing there, staring into the eye. There was a shimmer in that eye, the fire of life. It was twitching back and forth, looking around the room while it should have been glazed over and motionless. Such an eye did not belong as it was, set in that ravaged, bloody face. 

The eye moved, stared at Gungho, then Elam, then stopped at Strago. The body's arm lifted from the bed, reached toward Strago. A chunk of flesh fell from it, landing on the floor in a black-red pool with a sound like dropping a wet towel. The fingers moved. That skeletal hand gestured, bade Strago to approach the bed. 

Strago was frozen. He watched the dripping bones move, begging him to step forward. The arm simply should not have been moving, and yet. . . . His gaze moved back to the eye. Yes, that eye had life. It was all but glowing. And it stared at Strago. The man on the bed was not merely _asking_ for Strago, it was demanding, giving him an order to step forward. 

Swallowing down vomit that had threatened to come up again, Strago glanced to either side of himself - Gungho and Elam were both as white as snow, and he supposed he probably was, as well - and then slowly moved toward the bed. The hand, and the eye beckoned him, calling him closer until he knelt beside the bed in the pool of blood. 

The man let the arm fall and turned his head away from Strago, then coughed hoarsely, spraying red mist on the once-white pillow. After a second, the head turned back to face Strago. The mouth opened, the broken jaw and shredded lips worked. It spoke. 

"I . . . am not long for this world." 

That was almost enough to make Strago laugh. Almost. Dying men had a way of stating the obvious more effectively than anyone. 

"I . . . long for . . . my world." 

Strago blinked. Is _that_ all he wanted to say? Why is he repeating himself? _Probably can't think straight anyway_, he thought. 

"Listen to me c-closely . . . now . . . Mage Warrior." 

Strago was taken aback by that. An outsider who knew the secret of Thamasa? How? Confused, Strago leaned over the man to listen. 

The skinless hand slowly rose and grabbed Strago's shirt, a purple stain appearing on the blue wool. "I have been a-away for . . . for too long." The man drew a long breath. It sounded like water in a pipe. His throat was filling with blood again. "Too long . . . outside . . . takes too much strength. Wasn't strong enough to . . . to fight it off." 

Strago blinked again. "Fight it off? An animal? What are you talking about? Outside of where?" 

The man shook his head slowly. "Doesn't . . . doesn't matter now. But others might come for . . . might come for me." Strago's eyes narrowed. "They don't know . . . how weak . . . they ha- . . . become outside. They'd die if they came . . . suffer m-m-my fa-. . . ." The man coughed again, spraying blood at Strago. Still, the skinless hand held an iron grip on his shirt, and it pulled him closer. "That is why y-you . . . take the ma- . . . the m- . . . the stone . . . take it to Jidoor. G-give it to them . . . Tell them to g-go back." 

Strago was lost. "What? What stone? Take it to who? Jidoor? What? Who's in Jidoor?" 

"Zo- . . . Z- . . . Z-. . . ." The eye rolled back in the head, and the head fell down to one side on the pillow. 

Strago jumped to his feet. "What? No! I need more information!" Strago closed his eyes, frantically trying to clear his mind. In seconds, the room lit up, the pale blue glow surrounding Strago illuminating the darkest corners of the inn, and growing brighter. It cast shadows on Strago's face, like a fire in the dark. A blue fire. The air in the room seemed to grow lighter and denser, warmer and colder, humid and dry all at once. There was magic in the air. And Strago glowed. The blue light grew darker in colour, more visible to the wide eyes of those watching. They'd all seen Strago do this before, but he never glowed like _this_. The blue glow took a shape around Strago as his cloak billowed behind him as if a hurricane had taken it, a bright blue spinning triangle of light, of pure magic. Then, with a soft ringing sound, the white-green sparks flew from Strago. His eyes shot open and he directed them toward the man on the bed. Countless blue-white-green pearls of light like little comets bombarded the man, moving over him and through him as he convulsed on the bed. 

The lights, the glow, disappeared as if they had never been there. The Pearl Wind had died down. 

The man remained motionless. 

After a time that seemed like eons, although it was only seconds in reality, Strago let out a deep breath and turned to face the crowd. "He is dead. Someone see that he has a proper burial, and -" A sound from behind Strago, and gasps from the townsfolk cut him off. He turned to look at the dead man, and gasped himself. 

The body on the bed was glowing and shaking violently. And growing. The body increased in size until the arms and legs hung over the sides of the bed. Its skin changed, becoming like steel, only rusted, dented, and with holes ripped in it. The head looked like a giant tea kettle. The thing continued to grow. The bed was crushed under its weight, and it still grew, until it was almost as long as the room itself. Its hands were enormous, bigger than its head, which was about the size of Strago's torso. 

Finally, after a very long minute, it stopped. The glow dissipated, and the shaking, which had torn down one of the building's walls, stopped. 

Strago's head felt light. He glanced behind him. Most of the townspeople had fled, although some had fainted on the floor. Gungho and Elam stood as if they had never moved at all, the models of consternation. Strago slowly turned his head back to stare at the steel giant. Stare was all he could do, until it began hissing, an ear-piercing whistle. Strago backed away then, pushing Gungho and Elam along with him, but he didn't take his eyes from the thing. The sound became louder and louder, and the giant shook once. Then, heat. 

Steam exploded from every crack, every hole, and every valve on the giant. Strago, Gungho, and Elam dove out of the room to avoid being scalded. They succeeded, for the most part. 

The hissing and steam kept coming for a good five minutes before finally ceasing. The three men stayed on the floor for a good five more, just to be safe, before finally deciding it was okay to stand. They crept around the corner of the wall, into the sleeping area, to see what was left of the steel giant. 

Nothing. Not even a scrap of junk metal was left. Strago nearly fell over. 

"Um . . . what do you suppose happened to it?" Gungho whispered the question, as if the thing was hiding in the room and he didn't want it to hear him. 

Strago didn't have an answer. He probably couldn't have talked even if he had. Cautiously, he moved further into the room, to where the remains of the bed lay in a pool of steaming water that had been blood minutes before. 

There, on the pillow, was a stone. No, more than just a stone. A gem. Strago bent his knee to crouch down - almost falling on his face - and picked up the precious-looking rock. It was like nothing he had ever seen before, an aquamarine green stone, smooth like glass, with a fire-orange core in the centre of it. 

"What is it?" That was Elam talking. 

"I'm . . . I don't know," was Strago's reply. "Something the thing had on it, I expect." 

"Do you suppose that's the stone he wants you to take to Jidoor?" Gungho spoke that time. 

Strago blinked. The disappearing giant had made him forget everything the man had said. "Oh, yes . . . I guess this would be it. I don't see any other stones around here." 

The three men looked into the stone for a time, no one saying a word. It's not every day you see a man who should have been dead crawl into your town, change into a monstrous steel thing, and then disappear without a trace, leaving nothing but a strange gemstone. 

Elam broke the silence. "So . . . are you going to take it to Jidoor?" 

Strago needed to be asked again before he heard. "What? Oh, right. Well, I don't know. I'll sleep on it, I suppose." Yes, sleep is what they all needed, although Strago was beginning to consider the possibility that he was _already_ asleep. 

"Right, sleep," said Elam, absently. 

The three men stood up. Strago placed the stone in his belt pouch, then the three walked outside - through the gaping hole in the wall of the inn - into the empty street. Apparently, all of the people who had crowded the inn had also decided that sleep was the best option. The three men gave parting words, halfheartedly, and then went in the directions of their own houses. 

Strago felt lucky that Thamasa was such a small village. From the inn, along the path to the village centre was only a minute-long walk. Turning left at the tree that marked the centre of town, the walk from there to Strago's house took only an additional two minutes. If the walk had been any further, he thought his knees would have given out before he was home. He all but fell through the front door, having to use the latch handle to support himself for a second. By the Goddess and the wrath of Doom, he was frightened! And tired, too. 

_Bloody shock_ would _have to wear of_, the doctor in his mind said. 

Leaning back on the door he had finally managed to close, Strago took two long, deep breaths, then made his way to the stairs , which he painstakingly climbed. Once at the top, he staggered to the bed and collapsed, shivering. 

A good deal of time passed before Strago was able to calm himself. He lay on the bed, working to breathe steadily, and made an attempt to examine the situation logically. 

_A man who should have been dead changes into a . . . thing, and then disappears, leaving only a stone._ Strago pulled the green-and-orange gem from his belt pouch and placed it on his pillow, in front of his face. _But before he changed, he told me to take_ the stone _to Jidoor._

Strago got up from the bed; he found that he could think better when he was moving around. Pacing back and forth, he continued to weigh his options. 

The man had said that more would come. More what? Perhaps letting them come would provide an opportunity to ask some questions. Except that the man had said that they'd 'suffer his fate' because they'd 'been away for too long.' Away from where? Why would they suffer his terrible fate if they came to Thamasa? 

Strago sat in a chair at his desk; he was too tired to walk, regardless of how much it helped him think. 

The man thought that getting "the stone" to Jidoor was important. Obviously, since he had used his final breaths telling a total stranger to take it there. And obviously, "the stone" was the gem that had been left behind. The man had said that someone would be there. More of the people who would suffer if they came? 

The more Strago thought, the more it became clear that he had only one path open to him. There were people in Jidoor who would come looking for the dead man, and suffer his bloody fate. And Strago certainly had a lot of questions to be answered. Questions that could only be answered by these "others." If they couldn't come to him in Thamasa, then he would go to them in Jidoor. 

Strago stared at the stone, still resting on the pillow at the head of his bed. Soft moonlight shone in through the window and fell on the blue-green stone with the fire-orange core, causing it to glow with a light like great conflagrations under the sea. There was something special about that gem, it was completely unlike any diamond or emerald. Much more precious. 

Strago turned his chair back to his desk and leaned on it. He had never in his life been farther from Thamasa than The Veldt or Ebbott's Rock, no more than fifty miles. He only knew that there was a city called Jidoor because he had read about it in books from his grandfather's time. If he was to venture out into the world, he would need to prepare. Intending to make a list of necessary supplies for a trip across the world, he picked up a quill pen and reached for the ink bottle beside the unlit lantern on the desk. But sleep came before he had a hand on it. 

He slept surprisingly well, and although his dreams were filled with images of the dying man, his hand as a hand picked clean by vultures and yet still reaching for him, they were not nightmares. Rather, they were dreams of beginnings. Strago knew that the man's death was the beginning of something, not and end. The beginning of a great adventure. 

And so he slept, in a chair in a room flooded with moonlight turned blue-green and red by the stone on the bed. The stone that glowed like a fire in the ocean. 

Like the spark in that dying man's eye. 

***************


	4. Part I - Chapter 4: A Departure

**Part I - Chapter 4: A Departure**

The sun was at its midday peak in the bright blue sky, and it shined down on the world as strongly and relentlessly as ever. It brought light to the world, and life - although lately, it seemed to kill the grass and trees that fed from it, leaving dead brown where there should have been lush summer green. 

Abital thought that the sun's rays might be shining on the city of Albrook especially, that day, and maybe wishing it luck. It was the day that Maranda's last ray of hope would begin the journey to Doma and attempt to bring light where there was potential for very dark times. He hoped with all of his being that it could be done. Doma's blades would not be as easily squelched as the brown blades of grass. 

He wasn't the only one with that hope. Thousands of people lined the main road through the centre of Albrook. The long, cobble-stone street ran from the Albrook Square, a large courtyard within the walls of the Royal House in the northern part of Albrook, to the shipyard, at the southern end of the city. It was less than a mile long; Albrook was not very large north-to-south, although it was quite long east-to-west. A waist-high wooden fence had been built along most of the length of the road, on both sides, and Royal Guards already stood every ten paces, polished armour shining silver, bodies never seeming to move or twitch. These were to keep the huge crowds in check when General Eric Gestahl and his entourage rode to their ships. 

Most of the people were packed as close to the Royal House as possible, and the density of the crowd lessened the further south you went along the road. Slightly. Abital had taken up a position near the halfway point of the road. He would be able to see Gestahl within minutes after leaving the Royal House, and able to follow the procession to the harbour. 

Abital didn't know why he wanted to follow the parade, to see Gestahl ride a chocobo onto a ship. He supposed that he felt that seeing Gestahl would somehow give him an idea of his ability, or allow him to gauge the man's chances. A completely ludicrous notion, but Abital just wouldn't feel right if he didn't see the man who was going to try to save his life; indeed, who had saved it more than once already. 

A cool breeze blew in from the sea, lifting the blanket of heat that covered the city. Prayers for rain hadn't been answered – there was not a cloud in the sky – but Abital wasn't about to complain. This was a comfortable summer's day. He thought that after Gestahl left, he'd take his son to a park and teach him to play Nikean Handball. 

Abital glanced to his left and spotted Dibon fighting his way through the crowd, and the smile on his face grew even wider. No two people in the world made him happier than his son and his adopted father, and he'd be able to spend time with both of them that day. 

"I haven't seen half this many people lined up on an Albrook road since an old friend of mine rode down the street with five naked Tzenites tied to his chocobo and running like mad." Dibon had some strange ways of greeting people. When he saw Abital's eyebrows rise, he just smiled wryly and said, "Well, that's a story for another day. The here and now is why we're both here, now." 

Abital nodded. _Naked Tzenites running behind a chocobo!_ Yes, a story for another day. "It seems like most of the city is here to wish General Gestahl good luck." 

"Luck doesn't exist, boy." Dibon scanned the throng as he spoke. "People attribute success to their skills, and failure to 'bad luck.' Gestahl has skill, and his success or failure rests on that, and on Doma's counter-strategy. Luck is just an illusion." 

"That's as may be," said Abital, "but what is hurt by wishing him luck?" 

Dibon sniffed, but did not respond. 

Smiling, Abital looked north. The Royal House could not be seen as it was just below the horizon, which wasn't far from him; the road wasn't a level one. "When will Gestahl be coming out?" 

Dibon shrugged. "There are twelve hours left in the day. The choice is his." He continued to look around at the crowd, which was growing all the time. 

"What are you looking for?" asked Abital. 

Dibon glanced at Abital. "Hmm? Oh, just him." 

Abital looked in the direction Dibon pointed and saw Denis making his way through the crowd. Dibon's musclebound son had no problem getting past anyone, even with his arms full. 

"Hey Dad! Abital!" Denis stopped as he reached the two men. He was holding three green glass bottles. "I brought you both some free refreshments." 

With a toothy smile, Denis unscrewed the cover from one of the bottles and offered it to Abital. He accepted it, but did not drink. Dibon, on the other hand, leaned back and drank down half the bottle's contents before coming up for air. 

Abital chuckled. "Only half?" 

"He's growing soft in his old age!" Denis laughed. 

Dibon stared at them as if they were small children who had just cursed in front of their parents. "Irresponsible drinking is no laughing matter." 

Abital rolled his eyes, and Denis stopped laughing. How many times had Dibon made similar jokes at other men? He was right about it not really being funny, Abital supposed, but that was beside the point. There was just no way to make Dibon the butt of a joke. 

Before Abital could even think of a way to try again, the blasts of trumpets sounded from the north. All three men looked up the street. There was no way to see Gestahl come out of the Royal House, but they would see him as soon as it was possible. 

Abital glanced around for a place to put his still untouched drink – he could see that Dibon was just finishing his, but he was not thirsty – and finding nowhere, he just held it. He was anxious to see Gestahl, for whatever reasons existed, and it would be only minutes now. 

~~ 

The cavalcade wasn't especially large, but it was certainly grand. Ten drummers led the way, producing a quick and merry beat, and they were followed by ten men with trumpets and ten more with large horns that twisted around their bodies like brass snakes constricting prey. Then, fifty guards in two rows of twenty-five marched in perfect unison, their silver breastplates and helmets gleaming, their pikes all held at the same angle. General Eric Gestahl himself rode next ,on a yellow chocobo draped with green banners, and with five Honour Guards marching on either side, golden armour worn over dark green cloaks. Following them, fifty more guards in two more rows, then ten more drummers bringing up the rear. 

Gestahl looked around at the screaming masses and laughed inside. They were cheering for him, chanting his name as if he were their King, spending their time to see him off as if they could somehow help him. He supposed that they were all there out of fear, really. None of them were actually there to see him. Many of them probably didn't even know who he was, even after all he had done for everyone. Thousands of people lining the street, and probably about half the number that would have come to see that buffoon Anthony. It was almost enough to make him sick up; no one knew what demanded respect. 

The parade moved along, and every now and then the crowd would roar, GESTAHL!. He didn't wave, or crack a smile. He simply sat up straight in his saddle, held his head high, and looked regally down on the people as he passed them. 

_Eventually,_ he thought,_ they will come to see me not because I am going to save them, but because they respect me. They will respect my power._ Yes. Eventually. 

On these thoughts, he let his mind wander, let his imagination run wild. He looked around and imagined a hundred thousand citizens, a _million_, where there were really just five or six thousand at most. Ten thousand soldiers marching around him, where there were really only a hundred. The high walls of his stronghold looming over them all: the walls of his castle, in his capital. _His_ capital. 

He rode on, unconsciously keeping in formation with the parade – instinct developed by repetition; he'd rode in many such parties before – but his mind still drifted. He looked around again, at the people. He saw new faces, always new faces he hadn't seen before. Those were the faceless ones that he would save. They would owe him everything. He'd make sure they knew what they owed him. Every one of the faceless ones. That one, with the long, brown hair. That one, with the white shirt. That one, with the bushy black mustache. That one, throwing off a long coat and drawing a sword. . . . 

~~ 

The first drummers were just passing Abital, and he could see Gestahl clearly. In his long green cloak, lined with red and silver, with his short brown hair and trimmed mustache, he looked like nobility right out of a novel. Abital didn't know what that would tell him, exactly. Nothing, probably. Doma would certainly not be impressed by such things. 

"Does he look the same, Dibon?" Abital had to tap the man's shoulder and ask again to get an answer. 

"What? Oh, no. Of course not. I saw him twenty years ago. He looks older now, more experienced. Which is good for us." Dibon glanced at Abital for a moment. 

Then, something happened. Abital looked back to the procession, and saw Gestahl being thrown from his chocobo as it had a leg slashed clean off by a tall man with a sword. Within seconds, the guards had abandoned formation and were upon the man, but more dark-skinned men armed with the long, thin blades, at least thirty of them, had appeared in the street and were battling the soldiers. 

Abital didn't know what to think. "Dibon! Dibon, what is . . . Dibon?" Abital glanced to where the man had been standing, but saw there a woman he didn't recognize. Looking around, Abital spotted Dibon running up the middle of the street, toward the fight. 

"Father!" Denis yelled as loudly as he could. "By the gods! what are you doing?" Denis growled for a second, then smashed his bottle on the ground. Having properly armed himself, he then rushed after his father. 

Abital only stared after them. "What are those fools doing?" he muttered under his breath. 

The crowd was dispersing. People were scattered all about, either running into the street or away from it; most of them were doing the latter. He could clearly see the battle going on in the street now. The men with the swords were greatly outnumbered, but actually seemed to be winning. Fighting in pairs of two, back-to-back, they seemed to dance around the street while carving any soldier who came near into a hunk of meat and blood. Dibon was nowhere to be seen, and Denis had a very worried look on his face as he looked around. 

Abital desperately wanted to run away, but he couldn't bring himself to do it while his 'father' and 'brother' were in such danger. So he took a big drink out of the green bottle, and then quickly made his way toward the now-bloody street. 

The remaining guards, about forty, had arranged themselves in a square formation in the middle of the street. Abital decided that Gestahl must be in the middle. The square was slowly moving south, in Abital's general direction, so he moved back off of the street to make room for it to pass. It didn't get a chance. 

The dark-skinned men, numbering about twenty-five now, attacked the square in groups of four, one group attacking each corner. The guards on the sides had to move to replace the dying guards on the corner, and the four remaining dark-skinned swordsmen rushed in, penetrating the square, and having surrounded most of the guards, began killing them easily. 

In the back of his mind Abital hoped that Gestahl wasn't dead in the middle of that mess, but at that moment all he cared about was Dibon and Denis. He still couldn't see Dibon, and Denis had disappeared as well. 

Taking another drink from the bottle, he glanced across the street to a small alleyway between two brown wooden shops. About halfway through the alley, he could see Gestahl crouched low to the ground in the shadows, his fancy cloak torn and dirty. At least he was still living. He appeared to be searching for a way to get out of the alley and away from the street without being seen. Surely, though, it was impossible. 

The fighting in the street was finished. Every last guard was dead on the ground, and at least twenty of the swordsmen stood in a group. Abital was worried about Dibon, but he was about ready to run anyway. But he found that he was frozen where he stood, eyes fixed on the group, and couldn't seem to make himself abandon his missing friends. 

One of the men stepped away from the group, and the rest followed behind him as he walked along the street. In a loud, clear voice, he shouted, "Gestahl! Thou hast been defeated, Marandian dog! Come out now, if thou art not a coward, and die with honour!" 

The rest of the men shouted in a agreement, and also, "For Doma!" 

Abital choked on nothing; or maybe it was the ale coming back up. Doma! The accent was right, from what he had heard about how they talked. But Gestahl wanted peace! He turned to look back into the alleyway. Gestahl looked furious, teeth bared, eyes narrow, and hands clenched into fists, but he still appeared to be looking for a way out. 

As if reading his mind despite not knowing his location, the leader of the swordsmen shouted, "There isn't a way out, Gestahl! If thou art a coward in truth, and will not come out, then we shall pillage this city until we find you!" 

The group separated. Men ran in every direction, into houses and stores. And alleyways. Not the one in which Gestahl was hidden, but they'd get there eventually. 

Abital had to think quickly. If he didn't move, he'd surely be killed. Blast, where were those two men! And Gestahl was still in the alley. 

As he was about to turn and run, abandon his friends and Gestahl, he heard the sounds of men in armour running from the north. Seconds later, the street was filled with guards again, even more than before; at least four hundred. The swordsmen, every one with a shocked look on his face, ran as fast as they could to the centre of the street, where they could organize. About ten made it before the guards were upon them in force. 

Behind the guards, coming over the horizon on the street, Abital spotted Dibon and Denis. Had they gone to get these guards? Where? How? All questions for later. All that mattered was that they were both safe. 

Abital turned to look into the alleyway. Gestahl had left his hiding place, and was running across the street as fast as his legs and his bulky, torn cloak would allow. Abital was about to let out a sigh of relief and start to run, as he had planned, but he saw one of the swordsmen dash to intercept Gestahl in the street. 

Gestahl was caught not ten paces from Abital. The man had to dive to catch Gestahl's foot, and they both fell to the ground, but the man was up well before Gestahl could even begin to stand. The man raised his sword over his head, screamed a battle cry, and then fell to the ground as Abital's bottle smashed over his head. 

It took a few seconds for Gestahl to open his eyes, but when he did he promptly jumped to his feet and stared at the man's body. After a time, he raised his gaze to Abital. "What are you called?" 

"Um . . . Abital P-Palazzo, Lordship." 

"Abital Palazzo." Gestahl nodded, then turned and walked casually into the street, where the guards had killed the remaining swordsmen. 

Abital stared, and shivered. Why would people from Doma try to kill Gestahl? How did they even get to Maranda? 

"Bloody mess this makes of things." Dibon watched Gestahl as he approached and spoke to Abital. Denis cracked his knuckles and stared at the ground grimly. 

Abital couldn't speak. The three men just watched as Gestahl walked the rest of the way to the shipyard, surrounded by guards, and climbed the ramp to Maranda's Navy flagship, the _Guardian._ Two ships left for Doma that day, both with a full complement of soldiers, one carrying a ray of hope. There was no pomp or fanfare, no ostentatious sendoff for Gestahl. Just three men standing on the end of the dock and wondering what might happen once Gestahl reached _unfriendly_ lands. 

***************


	5. Part I - Chapter 5: An Adventure Begins

**Part I - Chapter 5: An Adventure Begins**

The sky was grey and the air cool and moist, the sort of morning Strago found quite comfortable and enjoyed waking up to. It was not quite six o'clock in Thamasa, and excepting Strago's footfalls quietly _crunch-crunch_ing on the dirt road, and the occasional bird or cricket, the town was silent. Savoring the tranquility, he made his way along the dusty path, toward the tall evergreen at the centre of town. 

As relaxing as the walk was, though, it was hard to keep his mind from other matters. It had been two nights since the mysterious stranger had crawled into the town, and since Strago had decided to leave Thamasa. He had slept until well after noon the previous day, having been so very late to bed. The rest of the day had been spent buying items and supplies that Strago thought might be useful on a trek across the world. Gungho, lifelong friend that he was, had opted to make the trip as well, which was a relief to Strago; he'd thought he might have had to go it alone, an idea which didn't appeal to him in the least. They had plotted their path using an old map of the world that Strago had found. It was probably a little out of date, but he thought it would do well enough. They would ride first to Mobliz, a town about one hundred twenty miles from Thamasa as a crow flies – but their path around the mountains to the south would be twice as long – on the wild and savage Veldt. It would take better than a week just to get to the Veldt, and close to another to make it to the town, even if they rode non-stop from sunrise to sunset. 

Turning north just before reaching the tree, Strago made his way toward Gungho's large wooden house, and continued thinking. Yesterday had been so busy that he hadn't had much time to think, but now the thought of leaving seemed more real than it had. He'd never been far from Thamasa. For forty-eight years, the small hamlet had been the only place he knew. Now, he was going out into the unknown, to fulfill the final wish of a man he'd known for no more than ten minutes. Not even a man; a thing. What was out there? How different would it be? How long would he be away? They had no ship to cross the ocean to the east, so they would have to travel west, by land. A vastly longer trip that way, thousands of miles. It could take months. Years! 

Shaking his head, he chided himself. He was a grown man. He could go wherever he wanted, without being afraid of what might be elsewhere. It would be a great experience. 

_Still. . . ._

He hoped that Gungho was awake. He wanted to get an early start. The longer they put off leaving, the harder it would be to get away. People would find reasons for him to stay a few minutes longer here, an hour there, and eventually another whole day would be gone. He reached the door to the man's house and knocked softly before letting himself in; Gungho never locked the latch at night. No one did in Thamasa. 

Strago closed the door gently, then yelled, "Gungho! Gungho, are you up?" He made his way across the room to the stairs and climbed them. "Gungho, you lazy goat!" 

"I'm up, old man!" Gungho's voice sounded from behind a wooden door in the upstairs hallway. "I'm ready. Just wait for a minute. I'll be right down." 

Strago flung the door open, and rolled his eyes. There was Gungho, hopping around on one foot as he pulled on a pair of blue pants. "'I'm ready!'" Strago imitated mockingly, "'I'm up! I'm ready!'" 

Gungho smiled sheepishly. "So I slept in. You don't have to get all indignant on me." 

"I wanted to be out of Thamasa early, Gungho." Strago's voice was firm, as if addressing a troublesome child. 

"And we will be," Gungho said, pulling on a wrinkled yellow shirt. "I don't take long to get ready. We'll be out of here in a half-an-hour." 

Strago grunted. "Well, have you gathered all the things you want to take with you? Only as much as you can carry behind you on a chocobo, remember." 

Gungho stepped across the room to a small table with a washbasin, splashed some water on his face. "All I need is a change of underclothes, my pipe, and enough dryleaf to last 'till the next town." He was pulling on his pink robe now. 

Strago cracked a smile at the garment, then said, "Don't forget your bow, some arrows, and a knife. We can't carry enough food with us, so we'll be hunting for most of it." 

"Not a problem." Gungho grabbed an unstrung longbow from the corner behind the open door. Then he took a small brown box from the table and dropped it into a pocket in his pink cloak. Patting the pocket, he said, "String's in here, arrows are downstairs. Ready to go?" 

Strago led the way down the stairs. He strode to the door while Gungho extinguished the fire in the wood stove and grabbed a large sack made to fit on the back of a chocobo saddle. Then the two men left the house. Gungho shut the wooden door firmly behind him and locked the latch; even in Thamasa, it was a good idea when you were leaving town for an extended period of time. Then they made their way to the centre of town and stopped. 

They both looked around at Thamasa for a time. Strago could barely hold back tears as he took in the sights of the town, marveling at how much of the place he had forgotten in its familiarity. He absorbed it all, now. He would not let himself forget any of it again, even if he was gone for years. 

Strago bent down and picked up a small piece of blue-grey gravel from the road and dropped it into his belt pouch. He felt that extraordinary gem in the pouch, the smoothness of it. He liked the feel of it more than that of the small, rough stone from the road. He wondered if he would come to like the rest of the world more than Thamasa. He didn't know whether he hoped he would or not. He thought he didn't. . . . 

With a shake of his head, and a sigh, Strago said, "Well, we'd better be going." 

"Hmm? Oh, yeah. Yes. Let's go." Gungho's eyes had the look of unshed tears. Strago was glad that he wasn't alone. 

"Come on." Strago tried to sound like he was excited. In a way, he was. It was just hard to feel anything but sad at that moment. "The chocobos are ready at Hul Bidkar's stable." 

The two men walked south from the tree, and were out of the town in minutes. The dirt road continued south, and they followed it. As they went, the road became no more than a roughly beaten path, but they kept going. Then, just as the sun was beginning its daily ascent, they reached the Bidkar Chocobo Farm. There wasn't as much need for chocobos around Thamasa as there probably was elsewhere, but they had their uses on farms and such. Hul Bidkar's stable was the only place to find a tame chocobo within hundreds of miles. Strago had made arrangements the previous day, buying two chocobos for the journey. They would be waiting in the barn behind the large farmhouse, ready for the trip to Mobliz. And further. 

"There's a side door over here," said Strago, and he led the way around the barn to a small wooden door. He pulled it open, and the men entered the dark stable. Strago immediately made his way to the large barn doors that could only be unlocked from inside, and slid them open. The bright morning sun illuminated the barn, the rays of light visible to the naked eye thanks to the dust floating in the air. Strago smiled, turned back into the barn, and frowned. 

"I'm ready to go, Doctor Magus." 

"Elam!" Strago kept himself from yelling at the boy who had startled him. "What the . . . what are you doing here?" 

Elam, who had been standing in a corner, stepped to the middle of the barn. "Is it a crime for a boy to look after his pets in the morning now, Doctor?" 

_His pets?_ Strago thought. "Your pets? You're Hul Bidkar's son?" 

"Yes," answered Elam. "You didn't know that?" 

"I must have . . . forgotten." Strago felt flustered. He had thought he knew everyone in the town, and who was related to who. And Hul Bidkar didn't seem old enough to have a son as old as Elam; the boy had to be seventeen, at least. Hul must have been a very busy young teenager in his day. "Well, regardless, I bought two of your pets yesterday, and I've come to take them." 

"Oh, of course." Elam moved to one side of the barn, opened two of the stall gates, and whistled quietly. Two yellow chocobos waddled out of the stalls, pecking at the hay on the ground as they came. They stopped in front of Strago and Gungho. After a moment, Elam joined them with two saddles. "Meet Maka and Roko." He threw one saddle onto each bird. "I trust you both know how to strap these on?" 

Gungho laughed aloud, and Strago's eyes widened. "Is that how young people address their elders today? Of course I know how!" 

"Ah, give the boy a break." Gungho laughed again. "Or have you forgotten some of the things you used to say back in the day?" 

Strago opened his mouth, but couldn't think of a thing to say. So he grunted loudly – which produced another laugh from Gungho – and proceeded to strap the saddle onto one of the chocobos, the one called Maka. Gungho did the same to the other, Roko. When that was finished, Gungho strapped his pack onto Roko's saddle. Strago retrieved his own bundle, which he had left in the barn the night before after purchasing the chocobos, and strapped it onto Maka. Then the two men mounted the birds, and made ready to begin the journey. 

"So, where are we going first?" Elam rode up between the two mounted men on his own chocobo, which also had a full pack tied to it. 

"Now wait just a minute!" Strago blurted out after a short silence. "What do you think you're doing now?" 

Elam stared at Strago. "I was with you guys at the inn, remember? I saw all the stuff that happened, and I want to know what that thing was about just as much as you do." 

"I'm sure you do," said Strago. "And we'll be glad to tell you all about it when we get back. Now get down off of that thing and go back to your house." 

"Oh, come on!" Elam looked at Gungho, back at Strago. "I've never been anywhere away from Thamasa. I want to see what else there is out there. And, I want to know what that guy was!" 

"No!" Strago tried to make his voice as firm as possible. "We have a long way to go, and you'd only slow us down. And besides that, it wouldn't be safe. I can't just take you thousands of miles from your home, without permission from your father! What would he say when we came back?" 

Elam's face sunk for a moment. "He'd probably tell you to take me on another long trip." After a second, though, the wide, toothy smile returned to his slightly pale face. "And I wouldn't slow you down." He patted his chocobo's neck and it gave a loud _WARK. _ "Woka here could outrun either of those two you are on. And I'd be useful. I'm not a bad shot with a bow." Elam shifted the chocobo a bit so they two men could see the bow and quiver hanging from the side of the saddle. 

"We've all the arrows we need, boy!" Strago sounded angry, but he thought, _What does he mean, his father would tell him to go on another trip? No matter, though._ "I'm sorry, but I can't let you come." 

Elam's face sunk again. "No, you must! Please, I must go with you!" 

"And just why _must_ you come?" Strago asked dryly. 

"Because I have to. I can't tell you now, but I will later, if you let me come." 

"That's not good enough for me, boy." Strago was more annoyed than anything, now. "Gungho, say something!" 

Gungho had a wide smile on his face under his mustache. "Sorry, Elam. He gets this way sometimes, and you just can't make him change his mind." Strago's eyes shot wide. 

Elam chuckled. "Well, no matter. I'll just follow you guys anyway, so you might as well let me come wi-" 

"How many times must I say no!" Strago took a deep breath to calm himself. 

"Why?" Elam asked. "My father doesn't want me here, anyway." 

Strago's caring, doctor's mind kicked in. "Hmm? What do you mean by that?" 

"He doesn't care what I do," replied Elam. "We get in fights and such." 

"Fights?" Strago's voice was all concern, now. "What do you mean? Does he hit you?" 

"Oh, no. He never hits anyone." Elam shook his head. "We just yell at each other. He doesn't care about me, or my mother and sister. He yells at me, I yell at him, Mother yells at him, he yells at my sister. . . ." 

Strago sighed. "Look, Elam. I got into shouting matches with my father when I was your age, too. It's not terribly unusual. Unfortunate, yes, but not unusual at all." 

Elam looked at Strago. "It's depressing, hearing it all the time. I want to get away from it for a while. Even for just a few months." 

Strago shook his head. "Look, you can't . . . I can't be taking you away from your parents. I'd be hung upon my return! And your sad story doesn't change that." He sighed again. "I'm sorry. I know how much you want answers to the questions you have about the thing in the inn. Believe me, I want them as much as you do. But you simply cannot come with us." 

Elam opened his mouth to protest again, but Strago sent him a glare that shut his mouth. Then, with a very angry look on his face, Elam slowly made his way out of the barn, muttering under his breath the whole way. 

Gungho smiled. "Memories of adventurous youth." 

Strago waved a hand at Gungho. "A lot of help you were! Leave me to argue with him, eh? Bah!" 

Gungho just laughed loudly and rode forward. Strago mumbled something under his breath – and stopped immediately when he realized that he sounded exactly as Elam had – then kicked the chocobo lightly with his heels and followed the other man out of the barn. 

So they rode on together, away from Hul's farm. Strago had to make trips to the cabins where the men with Logan's Disease stayed, just to see that the students knew he wouldn't be coming again for a while. They were none too pleased, and made much ado about it, but they weren't hard to set straight. 

After that, it was southwest. The town of Thamasa was at the end of a forty mile long peninsula off of a large island. They rode along the western coast as long as they could before they reached the end of the neck. The Obelisk Mountains loomed in the distance when they made camp for the night a few hundred yards from the ocean. Gungho had brought along a short fishing pole, and they were able to catch enough sea fish for a fine meal. 

They retired early, so as to get an early start the next morning. They slept around the campfire, the chocobos tied to a nearby tree. The last thought Strago had was one of anticipation. 

_It has begun,_ he thought. _ I don't know how long it'll be, or what will happen, but it's started._

And sleep took him with his hand on his belt pouch, holding the stones. He couldn't tell which one he held, through the leather bag, the smooth gemstone or the rough rock from home. But either one was comfort enough for him. 

***************


	6. Part I - Chapter 6: The Unexpected Rescu...

**Part I - Chapter 6: The Unexpected Rescue**

The journey went quicker than expected. By stopping late and starting early, a distance that should have taken six or seven days to traverse was covered in only five; Strago knew that it wasn't safe to travel long after the sun set, but they did anyway. One of Strago's friends in Thamasa, an elderly woman named Myrria Salem, would probably have said that they were prime examples of, "Typical Male Inanity." She was probably right. 

The second day after they'd left Thamasa had been a long. Tides in the ocean often reached the base of the Obelisk Mountains, making it impossible to walk around the range along the northern coast. Going over the mountains was also more trouble than it was worth, so the only option was to move south, around the Obelisks, in the hot, dry rain shadow. 

It was two days of that before the mountains gave way and they turned west. After that, the cool winds from the west could reach them and the heat wasn't so bad. It was another half of a day before they reached the edge of Yellowwood Forest. The forest, named for the yellow-leafed tree that was predominant in the area, covered a huge expanse of land, stretching almost all the way from the shore of the ocean to the base of the Obelisks. They camped on the edge of the wood, then made their way into it as early as possible the next morning. And such was the current state of the journey: moving as quickly as possible amongst the trees – they had no desire to spend a night in the forest, as there were not-so-friendly creatures to be found in it – and kept close to the mountains. The forest wasn't as wide along the Obelisks as it was in the centre, so they'd be able to make it through if they moved north and stayed close to the range. Strago collected fruits from trees in the forest; he thought he knew which ones were safe. Along with the Leafers that could be found dashing around on the ground, they always ate well. For five hours did they lead their chocobos through the dense forest, and except for tired legs and aching feet, the trip was uneventful. 

Then the sixth hour began. The two men continued on their way, talking and joking with each other as they had done on their adventures to Ebbot's Rock as young men. 

"BAM!" Gungho yelled out the sound of his fist on the imaginary creature he'd just pummeled. "Ha Ha! So you think you're so strong, eh Hidon? Well, you may be big, but it takes more than an ugly face to scare the Great Gungho Caspar!" He picked up a stick from the ground and beat a tree with it, then dropped it and continued jumping along beside Strago. 

Strago had to smile. His old friend really was as young at heart as he claimed to be. Although they hadn't been to Ebbot's Rock in almost thirty years, fresh in their minds were the memories of their week-long camp-outs and long, sleepless hunts for Hidon, the legendary beast that was said to inhabit the caves. 

Gungho stopped walking, tied his chocobo's reins to a tree limb. "I think it's time for a break, don't you?" 

Strago grimaced and glanced up, trying to get an idea of the time. The towering Yellowwood trees blocked his view of the sun, though, and all he saw was its light, made pale yellow as it passed through the leaves of the canopy. He still wanted to make it through the forest before sundown. But he felt the ache in his legs, and decided to assume that there was plenty of time left in the day. A short break would be okay. 

Gungho leaned on a tree and took in a deep breath of the fresh forest air. "Well that's one thing about this adventure that beats the old ones at Ebbot's Rock: it's a lot nicer outside than in those caves!" His smile grew as he talked, pushing his bushy moustache up against his nose, and he seemed to be staring back into the past. "You remember those nights in the caves, don't you? By Goddess, the air was stale in there!" He laughed a great, loud laugh. "The deeper we went into those caverns, the stuffier it became. And harder to keep a torch or fire going, too! We spent so many nights lying awake, starting at every little noise we heard in the pitch darkness! And so many days trying to find our way out of it!" 

Strago chuckled. He remembered those times well, and fondly. They had been scared out of their minds so many times, and every time they found their way out of the caves they swore never to reënter. But sure enough, whether it took a week to work up the courage, or a month, they always went back. 

Gungho released a strange sigh; happily melancholy. "It's too bad we could never take back the skin of the Hidon when returned to Thamasa." 

Strago shook his head. "If we had caught the Hidon, we'd have stopped going to the caves and never would have had the adventures we did." He now wore a smile as wide as Gungho's. 

Gungho nodded in agreement. Then his reminiscent look disappeared and a playful expression returned to his face. "Strago! Look!" He leapt from the tree and rolled to his feet, almost running into another tree nearby. Unfazed, he pointed to nothing in particular. "It's the Hidon, Strago!" He ran a few paces and began pretending to strike a large tree. Then he groaned in make believe pain and fell to his knees. "It . . . it has me Strago! Help! Help!" 

Strago blinked. He wasn't usually one for acting childish that way, but for some reason he felt compelled to dash to his friend's aid. _Oh well,_ he thought. _A man has to have a little fun sometimes! _ Strago laughed. "Need me to save the day again, eh, Gungho? Well, here I come then!" With a loud cry, Strago darted to his fallen friend's side. He threw a punch at the Hidon-tree, then helped Gungho to his feet. 

Then, all smiles and laughter, they proceeded to assault the tree. Gungho leapt onto a low tree limb and began delivering more imaginary punishment to the Hidon-tree. Strago was pretending to thrash the Hidon-tree with blow after blow, when a sound stopped him cold. "Gungho, be quiet for a minute!" 

Gungho ceased his loud battle cry and hopped down from the branch. "What is it?" 

"I heard something." Strago looked into the forest, searching for the source of the sound he had heard. Seeing nothing but the yellow-leaved trees, he decided that he had just imagined it. "Hmm." Then, with a start, Strago realized what they had been doing. His face reddened with embarrassment, even though the only other person around had been doing the same foolish things. "Well, I think it's about time we got going again."Gungho nodded. 

Strago turned away from the tree that was once again just a tree, and stepped toward the chocobos. One step was all he managed to take. 

There, between they and the chocobos, was a monstrous creature. On four thick legs it stood, legs covered in fur of a dirty yellow colour, the same as the rest of the thing's underside. It's back and head were protected by bilious green scales, and it had a short red tail. Its teeth were bared, and its drool fell to the ground where its massive claws, four on each leg, were digging into the ground. It made a guttural noise and its red eyes were locked on the two men. 

Gungho jumped back up onto the branch. 

Strago was quick to follow the other man's lead. They climbed the tree as fast as they could, just barely getting up in time to avoid the Baskervor's hungry pounce. Up and up they climbed, until the tree was too thick with limbs for them to go any further. 

The beast roared in its ire; it didn't want this food to escape it. It sprung up, jumping as high as it could and clawing at the tree savagely, but it could not climb and it could not reach them. It tried again and again, and each time its fury grew hotter and hotter, until Strago thought it might rip the tree out of the ground in its violent rage. It leapt around in circles as it screamed, then tried once more to reach its prey cowering in the tree. Once again, it failed. It bellowed again, and began thrashing around on the ground spastically. 

But then it saw the chocobos, and it became calm. Immediately forgetting about the two would-have-been meals in the tree, it advanced on the easier prey that could not run because of the reins that bound them. 

_No!_ Strago was horrified. If the chocobos were killed, they would have to walk back to Thamasa to buy more, wasting a whole week! Of course, that was assuming they ever got out of the tree. Remembering that it was either the birds or himself and his friend made it slightly easier. 

The chocobos became more and more petrified as the Baskervor approached, jumping in the air, crying, and beating their wings frantically, sending large yellow feathers everywhere. It was no use; they could not fly, and even if they could, they were tied to trees. The monstrosity moved closer, slowly, tauntingly. Strago could not see it's face, but he was sure it wore a grotesque smile. 

The air sung with the _twang_ of a bow. Strago blinked, and there was an arrow in the Baskervor's side. The beast screamed its loudest roar yet, and became crazy. It leapt against trees, stood on its hind legs and then on its front ones, and darted around in circles and rolled on the forest floor. The shaft of the arrow broke under it as it rolled, but the head was obviously still lodged inside the thing's body. It continued jumping around erratically. 

_Twang!_

A second arrow flew true from the forest and burrowed into the monster's stomach as it was on its back in the middle of a roll. It let out another scream, but weaker this time. It turned onto its stomach, then pulled itself to its feet. Its rage seemingly replaced by the instinct to survive, the Baskervor bounded int the forest. A third arrow glanced off of the green scales on the creature's back as it escaped. In seconds it was gone and the woods were again quiet, save for the beating of wings and the _WARK_s from the chocobos. 

Strago waited for about a minute, then decided that it was safe to begin the descent to the ground. Gungho had already started a few seconds before, and was almost at the base of the tree himself. 

"Where did the arrows come from?" Strago asked before he was on the ground. 

Gungho was looking in the direction they had seemed to fly from. "Hello!" he called. "Who is there?" 

Strago jumped the final bit to the ground, then called himself. "Hello! Please come out! We'd like to meet our saviour!" 

"Aww, you're embarrassing me, Doctor Magus!" 

Strago's eyes shot opened wide at the voice, and wider still when Elam Bidkar dropped to the ground from a tree about forty paces away, bow in hand and quiver hanging from belt. 

Gungho laughed loudly. 

Strago was equally loud, but he did not laugh. "What in the name of Goddess are you doing here, bloody kid! I told you to stay home!" 

Elam strode up to the other two, stopped a few paces away, pulled his quiver of arrows from where it hung on his belt and put the strap over his neck to hang it on his back. "I _did_ tell you that I would follow you if you didn't let me come." 

"I told _you_ that you couldn't come with us!" Strago repeated. 

"Now, now, Strago," laughed Gungho. "How can you be so hard on the one who just saved our lives, eh?" He stepped to Elam and slapped the youth on the back. "I think we owe him a lot of gratitude!" 

Strago shook his head, then groaned and nodded. "You're right. We do owe him thanks." He bowed to Elam. When he straightened, though, his opinion had not changed. "But that doesn't change the fact that he shouldn't have come. He'll have to return to Thamasa." 

Elam looked dejected, but Gungho just rolled his eyes. "Come on, Strago! The boy has to be, what? Seventeen?" 

"Eighteen, actually," Elam put in. 

"Eighteen! Well there it is, then! The boy's a man, Strago! And free to go wherever he wishes, whenever he wants!" 

Strago couldn't believe that his friend was arguing against him. He had no way to predict what the world would be like beyond the shores of the Crescent Island. The people of Thamasa lived behind a curtain of self-imposed isolation, and had for generations uncounted. It may not be safe on the other side of that curtain, and he didn't feel comfortable taking any more people than he had to. 

But, he found that he couldn't counter their last point. Elam was, by custom of Thamasa, an adult, and as Gungho had said, he was free to go wherever he chose. He had been there at the inn for the whole incident; he hadn't fainted or run away like most everyone else. He _had_ followed them for five days without being noticed . . . until he had finally made himself known in order to save them from a voracious beast. 

Strago nodded. "Very well. Perhaps I have been a bit bullheaded." He sighed. "Elam, you may accompany us if you wish. But I warn you that it may become dangerous. We will be crossing the Veldt, where it is said that creatures from all over the world migrate and hunt. And who knows what we will meet beyond that?" 

Elam shrugged. "Anything you two can face, I can as well." A wry smile grew on his face. "Besides, if you both are going to spend all of your time fighting battles with trees, you may need someone level-headed to keep you in line!" 

Strago opened his mouth to say that they should go back to their chocobos, but before a sound could be made he realized what Elam had said. "You . . . saw that?" 

Elam's only response was a wide, toothy grin. 

Strago's face felt very hot, and he was sure it was bright red like the Baskervor's tail had been. He glanced at Gungho. For once the other man seemed to be a bit embarrassed himself; his cheeks were a pink that went well with his cloak. 

"Well . . . uh, I suppose we should be going now!" Strago walked very hastily to his chocobo, and mounted it just as quickly. Gungho was right behind. Strago cleared his throat, as if he thought it would somehow return some of his lost dignity. "Elam, where is your chocobo?" 

Elam stuck two fingers in his mouth and blew a shrill whistle. Seconds later Woka, the chocobo he had had ready at Hul's farm, ran gracefully out of the trees. It came to a stop beside Elam, and he mounted it easily. He moved it forward, using only his knees, and caught up with Strago and Gungho, who had started their chocobos trotting already. 

Strago grunted, then cleared his throat again. "Before we go too far, though, let's clear a little something up." 

Elam moved his chocobo closer to Strago's as they rode forward. "What's that?" 

Strago stared at Elam. "When we get back to Thamasa, whenever that might be, you must promise – you must _swear_ to me . . . that you will not tell anyone about the . . . the tree thing." 

Elam chortled, and sped his chocobo up to ride beside Gungho ahead. 

"Hey!" Strago rode faster to catch up. "Swear it, Elam! _Elam!_" 

~~ 

After passing through the forest, they had turned north westward. And so they rode for the rest of the day, moving across rolling, grassy plains with the late-afternoon sun ahead of them seemingly trying to blind them. The forest was out of sight to the southwest, hidden by the low, undulating hills that blanketed the region. The Obelisks could still be seen far in the distance behind them, but they tried to keep their eyes, and their minds, ahead rather than behind. 

Strago was getting over the embarrassment and enjoying the trip, despite a bit of discomfort caused by spending most of the day in the saddle. It was a peaceful ride. Sometimes they would go hours without saying a word, which made for a lot of time to think on things. When they did talk, the conversation was usually lighthearted and always enjoyable. 

Gungho, with his pipe stuck between his teeth, was slouched on his chocobo as if he wanted to sleep. Strago thought he was probably just bored. Gungho was the type who always needed something to do. 

Elam was straight-backed in his saddle, guiding the chocobo with only his legs while holding the old map in his hands. Strago had almost memorized the path they would take, and Gungho didn't appear to care where he was led, but Elam spent a lot of time reading the old thing. 

Strago broke a long silence. "We'll be coming up to the river fairly soon, I think." 

"And it's an awfully big one," said Elam from behind the large piece of creased, yellowed paper. 

"That it is," spoke Gungho, pulling the pipe from his mouth. "I hope you're in for a good swim." 

Elam nearly tore the map in two as he stumbled over his words, and Gungho laughed loudly. Strago just smiled. 

"No swimming for us tonight, I hope." Strago moved his chocobo, Maka, closer to Elam's, Woka, and held one side of the map. "That little star I marked there, by the river, is a little hut built by Veldt hunters. Outside the hut is a small pier, and at the pier is a ferry. No one uses the hut or the boat anymore, so no one should mind if we use it to cross." 

Elam nodded and said, "That's good." Then he shot a dirty look at Gungho, who just grinned back. 

"At least I hope the ferry is there," Strago continued. "Like you said, it's a wide river." 

Elam folded the map and tucked it back into a saddlebag, and the men continued on discussing this and that as they rode west. The sun outran them, and it was a fiery red arch on the horizon when they spotted the river. 

They called it a river, but it was really a channel of water that met the ocean at both ends. It was about seven miles across, and separated the large island, on which Thamasa was the only town, from the mainland. Directly across the strait was the Veldt, a vast expanse of mostly flat terrain where the grass was always brown and the trees, the few that were there, were tall, but always bent and twisted, like a once-strong warrior who had been stretched and tortured for a year. A few small mountains that were really just big hills were all that stood more than ten feet high. Except for some of the creatures. Strago had been hunting there once, with his father, although twenty-five years at least had passed since then. He only remembered that it was a threatening place. Even the air had seemed dangerous. 

With a shiver, Strago tapped the sides of his chocobo with his heels, and the bird sped up a bit. Gungho and Elam followed suit, and they rode toward the water. The smell of sea salt became stronger in the air as they moved closer. They reached the edge when the sun was already below the horizon and the sky was shifting from pink to red to grey, and eventually to a deep-night blue that Strago liked. There was a drop about only about five feet from the land to the water that splashed against the mud in a soft, hypnotic rhythm. 

Elam spoke up, "Well, where is the hut?" 

Strago broke his attention from the sleepy sound of the water, and answered. "It's a bit closer to the southern end of the river than we are now. If we just ride south along the water, we should find it quickly. I remember that you can see the Yellowwood looking southwest from the hut, and that's only a few miles from us." Strago looked to the sky for a moment. He scanned the heavens, the dark sky filled with tiny blue-white pinpoints. He searched them, browsing through the constellations – the Great Tree, the Shiva, the Hand of the Just, and others – until he found what he was looking for. Pointing skyward, he said, "You can always find south by locating that star." He shot a glance at Gungho, who had started riding north along the river. Gungho just casually turned the chocobo around and made his way back, as if he had known it wasn't the right direction and was simply testing the others. 

"Well, let's get moving, then," said Elam, "It's not getting any warmer out here by the water, you know." The young man moved one of his knees and pulled a rein, and his well-trained chocobo immediately started south at a brisk walk. Strago followed, as did Gungho, and they began to search. 

***************


	7. Part I - Chapter 7: Strategy

**Part I - Chapter 7: Strategy**

The room was a fairly dull one, for what it was. The walls were built of large, grey blocks of stone, and mostly uncovered. There were a few ornate blue tapestries depicting great victories in great battles, but for the most part, those hung elsewhere in the castle. The room was quite large, though. In one corner was a huge canopy bed with plush blankets of dark blue, and against the wall near the adjacent corner stood a grand wardrobe and a bureau with several mirrors. The rest of the floor space along one wall was taken up by a few high bookshelves, chairs, and reading stands, which made the room seem more like a library than a bedchamber. The wall opposite to those sported three large glass doors which led out onto a long stone balcony. Drapes of blue—always blue!—covered the doors for the night, though a thin beam of moonlight still found its way through. The floor was covered by carpets of blue, purple, and dark red. There was little gold gilding, no precious stones embedded in the furniture. Some would say that the room did not befit a King, but Doma thought it suited him nicely. 

"There you are, sir," said Abda, the servant, as he did the last button on Doma's sleeping robe. When finished with that, he picked up the clothes Doma had worn that day and threw them over one arm. Then he pulled back the covers on the large bed and turned toward the door. "I shall see that fresh wash water is sent up with thy breakfast tomorrow, and thy clothing will be laid out when thou wakest." 

"Very good, Abda," said Doma, settling himself into the bed. "Goodnight, Abda." 

"Goodnight, my liege," said Abda. He blew out the only burning lantern in the room, on the wall beside the door, then slipped out. 

Letting out a long breath, Doma closed his eyes and went through his nightly reflection of the day's events. Or the lack thereof. The last week had been spent making preparations, and preparations for preparations. It would still be at least fourteen days before Gestahl arrived. The General of Maranda's forces was going to try to set right the things that King Anthony had sent into disarray. 

Doma hoped that the negotiations would go smoothly. He had the greatest military in the world at his disposal, an army so well trained, and so feared, that it could not be defeated. Even so, he didn't enjoy war. He had been lucky during his reign as King and had never had to engage in a full-scale war, but even minor conflicts disturbed him. However, he had to put the best interests of his country first. The iron and mythril mines of Maranda were vitally important to Doma, and if he could not convince Anthony, through Gestahl, to honour the longstanding trade agreements, he would have no choice but to take the mines by force. Anthony was only hurting his own country by doing these things. Doma had thought long and hard about what reasons Anthony might have, but still could not understand it. The trade agreements benefitted both nations, and there was absolutely nothing for Maranda to gain by dropping out of them. Nothing to gain, but everything to lose. 

Rolling over onto his stomach, Doma tried to clear his mind and fall asleep. He slowed his breathing, taking deep, even breaths. Eventually, he began to nod off. 

"My liege! Are you awake, My Liege!?" 

Doma sprang up in his bed in time to see his chamber door burst open. A short man dressed all in white entered the room at a very fast walk, and stopped beside the bed. 

"My Liege," said the man, "A message hath arrived at the castle by way of pigeon. From Maranda. It doth bear the red seal, so we thought it should be brought to thine attention immediately, My Liege." 

_A message from Maranda?_ Doma didn't have any idea what it could contain. He hoped it wasn't bad news. "Very good, man. Give it here." Doma took the small rolled paper from Abda, broke the red wax seal that held it, and unrolled it. He had to read it several times: 

_Duane, King of Doma:  
As you read this, General Eric of   
House Gestahl is on his way to meet you.   
His intentions are peaceful, and he has   
the best interests of both of our nations in   
mind. I'd thought you would agree that war   
is not an attractive option. Gestahl will  
do his best to prevent it, but he needs   
coöperation. Your attempt on his life   
before he was even able to set sail for   
your shores leads me to believe that   
perhaps peace is not a goal that we  
share. It is unfortunate. All I can hope  
is that you will listen to Gestahl when he  
arrives, rather than try to kill him again.  
Anthony, King of Maranda.  
_

"By the gods, what is this!" Doma flew out of his bed and all but ran out the door into the corridor. Right away he was surrounded by servants and attendants, but he barely noticed them. _How could this be? There has been an attempt on the life of Eric Gestahl? And Anthony blameth_ me? Doma didn't know whether to be angry or concerned or confused. 

Speeding up his pace, he moved down a flight of stairs, around a corner, along another corridor, and turned into a large room with a long table in the middle of the floor. The room sported more decoration than Doma's bedchamber. Banners and tapestries of blue and red covered the walls, and the table, like the chairs around it, was polished black wood with inlaid designs of gold and silver. Doma went straight to the biggest, most adorned chair at the end of the table, farthest from the door, and dropped himself into it. Trying to stuff the roll of paper into a pocket and realizing that his sleeping gown had none, he ordered a servant to fetch him some proper clothes. 

"Might I ask why thou hast come here, my liege?" asked one of the maids who had followed him into the room. 

"Because I need a meeting. Fetch hither my Lords and Ladies, my Retainer, and the Ministers in charge of relations with Maranda. Don't stand there, woman! Go!" 

As the maid left the room at a run, Doma leaned on the table and brushed a hand through his thick, chestnut hair. He would have to compose a letter to Anthony explaining things, and prepare for Gestahl's arrival; the man would certainly be more than a little peevish. How would this affect the negotiations? And why would Anthony blame Doma for an assassination attempt? Surely he did not think so little of Doman honour! Things would have to be considered, discussed, and explained. Doma sighed. It was going to be a long night. 

~~ 

"This place has seen better days." Gungho opened the door to the old hut, and it nearly fell off its hinges. 

Strago nodded as he passed his friend and entered the shack. He looked around at the broken down place. It was only about ten feet by eight, with two beds attached to one wall, one above the other; Strago was sure that they would crumble and fall to the ground if he touched them. The walls were made of wood that was decaying, and grass was growing on the floor. Only the rats could call this place home, even temporarily. 

"I guess no one from Thamasa goes hunting on the Veldt anymore," said Elam, who was looking in from outside the door. 

"Hmm," was Strago's answer. A lot of people in Thamasa ate only herbs and vegetables, and those who did eat meat were happy with Leafers and other small animals that could be found near the town. Since no one wanted the meat of larger game, there was no reason for anyone to hunt on the Veldt. "I had hoped that we could sleep in here tonight, but I think that is impossible. We will build a fire outside—this house should make good firewood—and we'll sleep on the ground again." Strago turned and stepped outside. "But first, let's see about that ferry boat." 

The three men shuffled through the almost knee-high grass toward the water. Elam carried a lantern he had brought, and the moon was bright in the clear sky, so it was easy to see the boat tied to a post, floating in the water. 

Except for a few holes, the small wooden wharf seemed sturdy enough. Strago walked out onto it first to make sure, and then the other two followed one at a time. It supported their weight, so they walked out to the end of the twenty-foot wooden dock, where the boat was tied. 

The boat wasn't big. In fact, it was really just a large rowboat with a mast and a sail, but it had been built to carry five or six people at a time. It still bobbed on the water, which was a relief to Strago; he'd been afraid that they'd find only the top of the mast sticking out of the water. But it wasn't time to stop worrying yet. 

Before Strago had a chance to say anything, Gungho stepped off of the dock and onto the boat. He moved around in the small ferry, knelt down to examine it. Then he stood back up and said, "Well, the bottom's still in her." 

Strago rolled his eyes. Gungho didn't even care that he could have fallen through the bottom of the thing, into the water! "Well, how do we know the bottom will stay in her?" 

Gungho paused for a moment, then jumped up and down four times in the boat. It rocked back and forth in the water, and Gungho very nearly lost his balance, but he stayed afoot and straightened up. "It'll stay." 

Strago wanted to curse and swear at his old friend, but Elam's laughter reminded him of the boy's presence and he decided against it. 

Gungho, who seemed to be able to read Strago's mind, laughed as well. "The wood was probably treated so it wouldn't rot. Trust me, I know all about these things." 

With a deep sigh, Strago said, "Fine. If you think it's safe, I trust you. Tomorrow we'll go across. For now, though, let's go back up the hill and get some sleep." 

Gungho hopped back onto the dock, and they made their way up the small slope. The hut wasn't hard to tear apart for kindling, and it was only minutes before they were all asleep, around a fire, with the water beating against the riverbank softly in the background. 

~~ 

Even the relatively calm waters beat hard against the hull of the _Guardian._ The winds were stronger than one would expect from watching the water. No waves even came close to reaching the deck of the flagship, but the massive sails were all open and pulled tight by the fast-moving air. The winds had been fairly strong throughout the first part of the trip, which was lucky. They were making very good time. The ship, as immense as it was, was built to move as fast as possible, while still looking powerful; it was, after all, the flagship of Maranda's navy. Led by the giant soldier who seemed to grow out of the wooden hull, his long spear that extended out in front of the ship pointing toward the destination, the vessel sped across the water, followed by the second, not-so-impressive ship filled with supplies and more guards. 

Gestahl liked the look of the ship, liked sailing. Sailing was especially enjoyable on this ship; it didn't even seem to rock on the water. But the night was cold, and every man needed warmth, food, and sleep. Moving from where he had been leaning on the wooden railing, staring into the water, he strode along the deck toward the back of the ship. He climbed the steep flight of narrow steps that led to the upper deck, and made his way toward his personal cabin. Usually, the cabin in this part of the ship would go to the captain, but not with a noble on board. Especially such an important one as Gestahl. Signaling a few saluting soldiers to be at ease, he entered the cabin, closed and locked the door behind him. 

The cabin was smaller than the rooms Gestahl was used to, but huge for a room on a ship. There was a plain wooden bed built into one wall, and a plain wooden washstand on the other side of the room. Gestahl's personal possessions were much more posh; the trunks containing his clothes and other items were all gilded with gold and gemstones, as were the lanterns on the wooden night table, and he had placed a few green, black, gold, and red carpets on the floor. 

Throwing his heavy, green cloak over the backboard of the bed, he took a chair at the table and opened the brown writing book in which he kept a journal. He didn't write much—what was there to write about when you spent all day on a ship?—and he was finished in only a few seconds. He hadn't written much for a few days. The last time he had written anything of importance in his journal was the first night on the ship, when he had recorded the events of the attempt on his life. 

Gestahl rose from the chair and began undressing for bed, but he kept thinking. The attackers, there had been forty, had tried to pretend that they were from Doma. To any normal person, they would have seemed as such, but Gestahl had an eye. And an ear, and a mind. The men had obviously been faking the accent. It was a good attempt, and it had taken Gestahl a few minutes to realize it, but he could tell. He was trained in such things. None of the men looked like Domans, either. People from Doma generally had dark skin, but not so dark as the attackers had had. A person from Doma usually had tanned skin, almost a very light copper colour, but the men who had attacked him were almost red, as if they had stayed out in the sun too long, trying to look the part. And only twelve of the men had had any facial hair. In Doma, it was extremely uncommon for a man older than twenty to go clean-shaven. Again, a good try, but not good enough. 

Gestahl blew out the lanterns, crawled into his bed, and laid awake for quite some time. The situation aroused some interesting questions. Who would try to kill Gestahl? Why? And why would they try to make it seem like Doma was behind it? A radical group with unsafe political ideas? It wouldn't be the first time Gestahl had run into that problem. But none had ever tried to kill him. 

Surely Doma already knew about what had happened. He would be as confused as anyone. That would work to Gestahl's advantage, if he played it right. If he let on that he was angry with Doma for trying to have him killed, and always had a sizable group of guards with him. . . . Well, any amount of guards would be no threat to Doma, but it could still put a bad taste in Doma's mouth, make him feel obligated to make amends for some wrong, even one for which he was not at fault. It would be a small advantage at best, a tiny one. But every little bit would help. 

Letting his mind wander a bit, he remembered the embarrassment he had felt at the situation. He had been riding through the city, basking in the adulation of the ample crowd, albeit semi-false adulation, and he had been reduced to a laughing stock; thrown off of his chocobo like a rag doll and forced to hide and try to run. And what's more, none of the faceless people in the crowd had even bothered to help him! Him, who was trying to save them! 

Except for one, he remembered. Abital Palazzo. Abital Palazzo had bettered himself that day, moved above the rest of the throng of nobodies. He would be rewarded. 

Gestahl thought about such things for a while longer, then nodded off to sleep. There would be plenty of time to contemplate unanswerable questions in the next two weeks. He'd have nothing else to do, after all. 

***************


	8. Part I - Chapter 8: An Encounter

**Part I - Chapter 8: An Encounter**

The morning was a little more than just cool by the water. The cold breeze from over the channel was the cause of the hundreds of small bumps on Strago's body, and his shivering. But there were things to be done, and complaints about the chill could wait. The important thing was that there was wind over the water. Wind to pull the boat. 

The men had woken early; they'd been up for about a half hour, and the sun was just rising in the grey, eastern sky. Strago actually thought that they might have slept in, as the sun did have to rise over the mountains in the east, but that wasn't important. After a breakfast of apples, cheese, and salty water, they had set about preparing to cross the channel. Gungho inspected the boat again, and was much more thorough than he had been the night before. Perhaps the man did, in fact, care about falling through the boat and into the water. 

Getting the chocobos onto the boat wasn't an easy task. They were not particularly fond of any water that looked deep enough to cover their heads, and wouldn't calm down once they were onboard. They flapped their wings wildly and tried to run, causing the small ferry to rock back and forth. It nearly pitched over on its side more than once. Strago was unable to mollify them, and Gungho gave up after he was thrown into the freezing water for getting to close to one of the birds. It wasn't until Elam arrived at the boat—after taking his sweet time in putting out the campfire—that some order was restored. The boy stood on the dock and made some sort of soft, whistling sound, and the chocobos became slightly less violent in their movement. Then Elam jumped onto the boat and whispered a few things to each bird, and their raging frenzy ceased. 

Strago watched in awe. The boy was a wizard with the animals. It was like he knew them, as if he were a friend they trusted with their lives. 

With a wide, toothy smile on his face, Elam signaled that the situation was under control. Strago acknowledged with a wave of his own, then called to Gungho. 

"It's going to take me a while to get used to this," said Gungho. He emerged from behind a small bush wearing a bright yellow shirt and equally dazzling red pants. His drenched clothes, including his favourite pink cloak, were in his hands and held well away from his body. He stopped a pace from Strago and displayed the rosy-coloured garment. "Without this, I might was well be naked." 

Strago allowed himself a laugh at that—a man couldn't go too long worrying about things without allowing himself at least a few seconds now and then for jollity—and took the still-dripping clothes from his friend. "We'll hang these from the mast on the boat. They'll dry quickly there. Unless they get splashed. . . . Well, as you can see, Elam has cooled down the chocobos, so we are free to go." 

"Please don't talk to me about 'cool.' I'm freezing!" Gungho filled his long pipe with dryleaf from a bag on his belt—another half of a bag had been destroyed when he'd fallen into the water, and he was none too happy about that—and he lit it and stuck the thing between chattering teeth. "So, we can go now, can we? Well, then, what are we standing here for?" 

Strago and Gungho made their way to the dock, then stepped across onto the small boat. With three chocobos and three people, it was a bit crowded, but as long as it stayed afloat, Strago was happy. 

Gungho untied the boat from the wooden post, and took control of the vessel. There was a small, splintery wooden boom to which the bottom of the sail was attached, and Gungho used it to turn the sail into the wind. The cloth was jerked forward harshly, but it stayed attached to the mast, and the boat moved. The chocobos began shifting and making a bit of noise, but Elam was there to prevent an incident. 

After five minutes, they were already well away from the pier, and Strago let out a breath he felt like he had held forever. 

"Well, she's floating." Gungho sat down beside Strago on the bottom of the boat and continued smoking his pipe. "Now, we just sit here and wait." 

The crossing was difficult, vexatious for Strago. The current in the middle of the channel was not as strong as it could have been, but the boat was small. Even small waves caused the ferry to toss and lurch, and some of the larger ones sprayed water into the craft, soaking the travelers inside. Whenever Gungho stood to adjust the sail to the changing winds, Strago feared he would fall overboard. He had the same feeling when Elam got to his feet to calm the dismayed chocobos. He wanted to help them, but he knew they were better equipped for their tasks and knew what they were doing. The best thing for him to do was remain sitting in the boat. That bothered him. And if one of them fell into the water. . . . Strago closed his eyes and tried not to think about it. 

"Land, ho!" 

Strago's eyes shot open at the sound of Gungho's voice. And they widened when he saw what he was doing. The man was standing on the edge of the boat, hanging onto the mast and leaning out over the water! 

Elam was smiling at the chocobos. "You hear that, guys? You'll be back on dry land in no time." 

Strago nearly jumped to his feet, but thought better of it; he could rock the vessel and cause Gungho to fall out. Instead, he just spoke, trying to keep his voice steady. Trying, but failing. "Gungho! What are you. . . ? Get down!" 

Gungho roared with laughter. "No, I've already washed one set of clothes today by accident. No reason to do it again now, when we're so close to land." 

Strago sat up slowly and looked over the edge of the boat. The land was closer than he had thought, and they were closing in fast. With a smile, he let his head and arms hang over the side of the ferry. His hands in the water futilely resisted the movement of the vessel, leaving a trail of ripples. 

Gungho let one foot off the edge of the boat. "And we are . . . there!" The ferry jerked, and Gungho quickly moved the foot back into the boat, holding onto the mast for all be was worth. Then he smiled. "Well, the water is too shallow for the boat now. We'll have to drag it the rest of the way. No problem." 

Strago and Gungho jumped out of the boat into the knee-high water, and had to wait until Elam could convince the chocobos to follow. They came eventually, and immediately bolted for the land. A yell from Elam ensured that they would stay when they got there, and then the three men pulled the surprisingly light ferry onto the small rocky beach. They lugged it a good distance from the water, so that it would not be washed away in high tides, and then changed their wet stockings and tried to dry their boots as best they could. 

Strago looked to the sky as he pulled his boot back on. He was surprised to see that the sun had not moved much since they'd set sail. It couldn't have been any more than two hours, if even that long. It had seemed like a day to Strago. _ I am not cut out for sailing,_ he thought. 

After a short rest, the men mounted their chocobos and began to ride north along the coast. Strago suspected that staying as close to the water as possible would be a good idea, to avoid the scorching heat of the Veldt, as well as the unfriendly creatures that migrated there. 

The terrain near the coast was quite hilly. Strago could not see very far when he looked west toward the Veldt. He thought that might be a good thing. A little further inland, he knew, one could see for miles across the flat, dry land. And no doubt one would also be able to see some of the gargantuan beasts that inhabited the region. Meeting up with such a monster was not a prospect that appealed to Strago. He'd rather not even have to worry about that possibility. 

Elam had the old map out again, and his face was hidden behind it. "I think we'll be about two days to Mobliz. Good thing is, we can keep tight to the water all the way." 

Strago nodded. "Yes. Let's hope that nothing will come for a drink while we are passing by." 

"Oh, I don't know about that," said Gungho, his pipe held between clenched teeth. "It's been a while since I've tasted some good, red meat!" 

"And it'll be a while longer," said Strago drily. 

Gungho chuckled. "Maybe, maybe not. That stuff's good for you, you know." 

"In moderation, it is," said Strago. "If I let you go kill a huge animal, you'd probably eat the whole thing yourself and end up dead. Don't argue with me, either! I'm your doctor, remember?" 

Gungho seemed to ignore that last part. "You don't know what you're talking about. When I was a boy, we ate that stuff every night—double helpings!—while you were probably at home sucking down those green beans and leaves you like so much." A disgusted look came over his face, but it was quickly replaced by a wry smile. "And look at us now! I'm the perfect physical specimen, and you've grown old before your time." He shook his head in mock sorrow. 

Strago rolled his eyes. "I don't know what I was thinking, offering medical advice to Gungho, the master of sarcasm, and paragon of wit." Gungho seemed to like that; a great puff of smoke exploded from between his teeth, clenched in a wide grin. And Elam was laughing, as well. 

Most of the conversation was lively and jovial as the men rode northwest along the coastline at a very casual pace. While most of the traveling had been done in silence before, now the talking hardly ended. Strago didn't mind that at all, and neither of the others seemed to. They had a very long way to go yet, and hopefully they'd be able to continue thinking of things to say throughout the whole journey. 

~~ 

"You think someone actually came to the Veldt?" 

"Well, you see the boat as well as I do. It wasn't here two days ago! How else do you explain it?" 

"That means nothing! That boat's an old piece of junk. It probably washed ashore here." 

Eshtaol ignored the argument as best she could. Adami and Gaius were both good warriors and good companions, but they were still men; once they formed an opinion on something, the gods themselves couldn't change their mind. 

She surveyed the area herself, though she'd already done so several times. The small wooden boat they had found sat about thirty paces from her, with six men gathered around it; she had no idea what they expected to find. Adami and Gaius were standing close by to her left, still arguing over nothing. With a sigh, she turned her back to them all, stared out over the water, and thought. 

She often wondered what she was doing there, living on the Veldt with a group of vagabonds. Well, the answer to that question was clear to her, as painful as it was to think about; she was a prisoner there. But it bothered her that she had never _ tried_ to get away. She was not happy with those people, even after three years. Certainly, after washing up on the shore of the Veldt in an even smaller boat than the one they had found here, she and her daughter, only two years old at the time, would have died if not for the group of traveling hunters who had found her. She knew that she owed them two lives. The unfortunate thing was that they intended to collect on both charges. 

The sun was beginning the descent to the western horizon, and its glaring reflection on the water forced Eshtaol to look away. She returned her gaze to the people around the boat. Except for Gaius and Adami, who were her equals, these men were all under her command right now. Not long after being taken in by the band, it had become clear to her that she was to be treated no differently than any of them. That didn't bother her too much. She had picked up on their skills quickly; she was now considered one of the best trackers in the entire band, which had many more members than the seven that were with her. She could best many of the men in hand-to-hand sparring matches, and with a quarterstaff she had few peers. She had been swift in moving up the ranks in the band, until she'd become one of the field leaders. It was a distinguished position. 

And yet, she still wasn't at all happy with her lot. And she hated the thought of her daughter having to live her whole life this way. . . . But it was not the time to think about that. 

"Eshtaol?" That was the smooth, low-pitched voice of Gaius. Adami had gone to look over the boat with the other men, but Gaius had no interest in that. His attention was on other things. "Mind my asking what you're thinking?" 

Eshtaol looked at Gaius. He was a very tall man—she was quite tall for a woman, and her head didn't reach to his muscular neck. Like most of the band, his clothes were old, dirty, and worn. Stubble covered his hard, square chin, and a green bandanna was all that held long, greasy bangs out of his eyes. She stared at him for a time, almost forgetting about everything else. He certainly was not the sort of man she would have gone within ten paces of when she had lived in Nikeah. Here, though, she was forced to get along with such people. She saw him as a symbol of her oppression. 

"Hello? Didja' hear me?" Gaius' dark, narrow eyes seemed a bit less cold than usual, for a moment. 

Eshtaol snapped to attention. "Oh, yes Gaius. Yes, I heard you." She sighed again, looked away from the man. She had to keep better control of herself around him. She knew that he thought highly of her—_ very_ highly, although she didn't have an idea why. She supposed that men might have thought her pretty at one time, when her chestnut hair was clean and rolled down her back, her clothes—such as she could buy on a lower-middle class fisherman's earnings—were washed, and her skin was not thick with dust and dirt from the Veldt. But now her hair was cut short, necessary because of the heat in the region. Her dark brown breeches and dark green shirt were made even darker by sweat and grime, and her once pale skin was sunbaked and dirty. 

"Eshtaol!" Gaius placed a large hand on her shoulder. "Are you okay?" 

Eshtaol scolded herself again. _ Twice_ she had let her mind wander. "Yes, I'm fine. I'm just, uh-" Eshtaol glanced at the ground, noticed a chocobo track, "- looking for signs. Just signs of any activity around here lately." She realized that she was talking breathlessly, like a child caught in a foul act trying to talk a way out of it, and calmed herself. Keeping her spite in check was still a problem, even after three years. "I've found these chocobo tracks. They weren't made by any of ours; none were over here." She knelt down for a closer look. "They look fresh; less than a day old, I think. They lead off in that direction." 

Gaius knelt beside her, looked at the tracks. He was as good as she at reading signs like tracks. "Hmm. North, along the coast. So there are people here." Gaius glanced back toward Adami with a grin; Adami had been the one who thought the boat had drifted ashore with no passengers. But he quickly returned his attention to the tracks. "Well, this is interesting." He felt one of the large, three-toed tracks with his hand. "They're not deep, which means they weren't going fast. At least not at first." He stood up with a grunt, arched his back to stretch for a moment. "I don't think Naham would like news of unknowns running around on the Veldt." Naham was the leader of the band. He sat comfortably in a cave miles to the southwest. 

Eshtaol stood and nodded her head. "Yes. I think we'll have to investigate." 

Gaius nodded himself, then jogged back toward the group of men to tell them about their findings. 

Eshtaol watched him go for a second, then shook her head and ran after him, toward the group of chocobos she and her people rode. In less than a minute, they were all mounted and racing north along the coast at the chocobos' fastest sprint, following the tracks. 

~~ 

The sun was just touching the skyline in the west when Strago, Gungho, and Elam decided to stop and set up camp. Riding well into the night was bad enough around Thamasa, but on the Veldt there were nocturnal creatures that could devour all three men and still have room left for more. It was much safer to stop before sunset and recommence at sunrise, so as to minimize the amount riding done in the dark when it was more difficult to keep watch. Soon after stopping, they had a fire built and were downing the usual supper of cheese, bread, and water. Once that was finished, they quickly made ready for sleep. 

"I'll take the first watch," said Strago, "until the moon is there." He pointed to a point in the eastern sky, where the moon would be a few hours after rising. "Elam can watch until the moon gets to there." He pointed to another point in the sky, "And then Gungho can wake us up when the moon gets to there." He pointed to a spot just above the western horizon. 

"Sounds good to me," said Gungho. He tapped his pipe empty over the fire, put the thing back into his saddlebag. Then he crawled between the blankets he'd laid on the ground, covering his head to block what was left of the sunlight. 

"Me too." Elam laid back on his own blankets and closed his eyes. "See you later." 

"Sleep well." Strago picked up the bow and quiver from beside his saddle, nocked an arrow, then settled on a large rock several paces from the fire. 

This was a part of traveling that Strago did not enjoy. He had kept watch at night more than just a few times during his years, on hunting trips or while on adventures to find the Hidon. He knew that a night watchman was necessary, and so he didn't really mind it. Except that after the first hour, it was incredibly boring. And it was very difficult to stay awake with the entrancing sounds of the waves not far off, and the millions of insects and small creatures that chirped and twittered in the night. Strago thought it sort of interesting that while small animals tried to put him to sleep, it was the large animals that he didn't hear or see that kept him awake. 

So he sat there on the rock, arrow nocked, bow held between his knees as he rested his elbows on his legs. Every half hour or so, he got up and made a circuit around the campsite, found nothing, and returned to his resting place. 

After what seemed like days—the night always seems to go at a snail's pace when you're awake and alone—the crescent moon reached the first point in the cloudless, black sky. With a groan, and a crack of weary joints, he stood and stretched. Elam's time had come. Quietly, so as not to wake Gungho from his sleep—although Gungho was making enough noise himself to wake a deaf man—Strago moved toward Elam's blanket. And stopped dead. 

A noise. A faint rustling of dead grass coming from the dark ahead of Strago. He held his breath and stayed still, trying to hear it again. But he heard nothing except Gungho's snoring and the quiet crackling of the small fire. After about a minute, he returned his attention to Elam. He continued making his way toward the mound on the ground. Kneeling by his blanket, he gently shook the younger man awake. 

"Elam. Elam, wake up!" Strago whispered, leaning close to Elam's head. The young man turned a few times before he rolled onto his back and his eyes slowly opened. 

"Strago. . . . " His voice was tired, by which Strago was not surprised. 

"It's time to get up, lad," said Strago, still whispering. "I think there might be an animal around." 

At that, Elam scrambled to his feet, entangling himself in his blankets and then taking a moment to drop them to the ground. Once free, he turned to Strago. "Animal?" 

"Quiet, boy!" Strago looked around. "Maybe I was just hearing things. I am awfully tired. I thought I heard a rustling in the grass a minute ago, just before I woke you, but I didn't hear it again. Could be nothing." 

Elam nodded, took the bow from Strago. With a yawn, he said, "I'll look out for it." 

"Okay then, Elam. Remember, wake Gungho when the moon gets to-" 

The sound again. More grass being disturbed around the campsite. 

"Did you here that?" asked Elam quietly, holding the bow at the ready. 

"Yes," Strago murmured just as softly. "Over there, on the other side of Gungho." 

Strago reached to Elam's saddlebag and pulled out the lantern. Lighting it with an ember from the fire, he gestured with his head for Elam to follow him. They slowly moved around the camp, making a very wide circle. After doing that twice, they had not found anything. 

"I guess it must be gone, or hiding." Strago turned to look at the campfire, about fifty paces from them. "I'll go get some sle-" Something obstructed his view of the campfire for less than a second, a dark figure passing between he and the flames. Immediately, he pointed and yelled, "There, Elam!" 

In one swift, smooth motion, Elam lifted the bow, drew the arrow to his cheek, and released. The arrow darted into the darkness, a little to the right of the fire. After a second, there was a sharp yell and then a thump as something fell to the ground. 

Strago blinked. Elam had not been lying when he'd said that he was good with a bow. He even aimed away from the fire to where the thing would be running, and hit without even being able to see it. He turned to say something, but Elam was already heading toward whatever it was that he had shot. Strago held up the lantern and followed. 

A chocobo stood where Elam had fired, and a man was trying to climb back onto it with an arrow in his leg. 

"Stop!" commanded Elam, nocking another arrow and drawing. He pointed it at the man's back. 

The man glanced at them, and his movement ceased. 

"Who are you?" Strago demanded. 

The man did not answer. He slowly stepped away from the chocobo with his hands above his head, and did not make a sound. 

Elam gestured with the bow. "What's wrong? Don't you talk?" 

Still no answer. 

Strago shook his head. "Let's take him back to the fire. I think I have some rope we can tie him up with, or something." 

With the bow, Elam directed the man to follow Strago. The man did as he was told, limping after Strago with the wounded leg dragging behind him. 

Back at the campsite, Strago dug around in the saddlebags until he found a length of rope. They tied the man's arms behind him, and his legs together at the ankles. 

"What if there are more people around?" asked Elam, who still had the bow at the ready. 

"Well if there are, there are." Strago knelt beside the man with his bag of medical equipment. "But let's see about this arrow, first." 

Strago pulled the arrow from the leg, which caused a good deal of moaning from the man who still wouldn't speak. Then he applied some ointment and disinfectant to the wound, before wrapping a bandage tightly around the leg. 

"Now then," said Strago, placing little bottles and gauzes back into his small bag, "I'm going to sleep now. I would that I could stay up with you, but I am just too tired. Keep an eye out, Elam, and tell Gungho about this when you wake him up." 

Strago turned toward his blankets on the ground and stopped. Another person was approaching out of the darkness. Elam was up in a second, arrow concentrated on the figure. 

"Please, don't shoot at me," a soft, female voice seemed to sing. "I need your help." 

Strago's eyes narrowed. _ A woman on the Veldt?_ Female hunters were not common, at least not in Thamasa, and he could think of no other reason for anyone else to be there. Unless she was a fellow traveler. He placed a hand on Elam's shoulder, and the youth let the bow relax. Elam still kept it ready, though. 

The woman entered the light and stopped. Strago looked her over. Short, brown hair. Dirty, men's clothing. Dirty _ everything. _

She spoke again. "Please, you have to. I was here with my husband, a hunter. That man there-" she pointed to the man who was tied, "- he and some others captured us. There are more of them. You have to help!" 

Strago moved toward the woman. She looked to be quite distraught. "Don't worry, don't worry. I'll listen, and do what I can. We're just travelers, so I don't know how much help we can offer, but . . . we'll do something." 

The woman took a step toward Strago and stumbled. Strago leapt to hold her up. She grimaced and grabbed a spot on her leg. 

"Are you hurt?" Strago asked, his voice full of concern. _ What kind of people would kidnap a poor woman and her husband for no reason? _ "I'll help. Elam, get my bag." Strago helped the woman to sit on the ground, then moved her hand. There was a red spot on her pants, like a blood stain. But no wound. He stared at nothing for a moment. 

Elam placed the bow on the ground and reached for Strago's medical case. 

Five chocobos exploded into the campsite from the shadows of the night, each carrying a yelling man brandishing a bow or a short sword. Three jumped from their mounts and landed on Elam's back, and immediately began wailing on him with punches and kicks. 

Strago spun around to watch the clamor. Two men stepped down from their chocobos beside Gungho, who was still asleep! Elam had been thrown over the back of a chocobo, and the tied man released. The riders were tearing apart the campsite, searching everything. The yelling and screaming had stopped as fast as it had started, and now it sounded like just a few men moving around at night. 

Strago didn't know what he could do. _ The woman! Blast her!_ He turned around to face her. 

He didn't even see her foot before it smashed into his jaw. 

***************


	9. Part I - Chapter 9: A Time to Learn

**Part I - Chapter 9: A Time to Learn**

_Strago turned slowly, looking at the vast landscape around him, taking in every detail. He was sure that he was on the Veldt, but that was about all he knew. He thought that he should have been able to see water, a coastline not far from where he was, but there was none to be seen. In all directions around him, there was nothing; not a contorted tree, not a single animal, big or small. Just flat, desolate land that stretched silently as far as he could see. _

He was alone, as well. He felt as though there should have been someone else with him, but he couldn't think of who. He thought that he was probably just lonely and afraid, out in the middle of nowhere. 

How did I get here?_ He asked himself that question in his mind, but got no answer. _Where is this?

The sun was in the sky, a huge ball of fire at its midday peak. But there was something wrong with it. It was dull, colourless, as if shining through some kind of screen. It offered no comforting heat; in fact, it made Strago shiver. 

Strago stared at the stone in his hand, and it startled him; he didn't even remember reaching into his belt pouch to get it. The green-blue stone was the only colourful thing in the world, and its fiery red core blazed like the grey sun should have. 

Suddenly, Strago reached back, then hurled the stone into the air as far as he could throw it. 

It landed not twenty paces in front of him, a monstrous thing of brown iron. It had the shape of a man, if men were made of stoves and kettles and scrap metal. Its hands were enormous; it could probably throw Strago as effortlessly as he had thrown it not a minute before. Strago gaped in awe at the creature that towered over him like the oldest tree, as the memories of the night in the Thamasa Inn flooded back into his mind from somewhere. The huge monstrosity looked to be in better shape now than it had been then. There were no holes ripped in its sides, and rust no longer coated it. It glistened in the little light the sun produced, like a giant wearing its armour. Only, this giant was its armour. And it looked down at Strago. 

"You should learn to be more careful." 

Its voice exploded into the air, resounded as if the thing had yelled into a chasm. Yet, Strago knew that it was not yelling, just offering friendly advice. 

The hulk continued: "You are on a long journey, and you will learn that not all people are as friendly as those in the hamlet you came from. If you trust everyone you meet, you will surely die." The voice seemed to become softer for a moment, as if it was full of concern. "You are doing this for the sake of my people, and none of us would want the death of another kind man on our conscience." 

Strago was completely still. On the outside, at least. Inside, his stomach acids churned and his mind raced. He felt afraid, felt confused, felt intimidated, and felt very, very small. Goddess, what is happening? _ Goddess didn't respond to his thoughts, and he couldn't answer the question himself, so he decided that he would have to speak. If he could. _

"I am on this journey because I have questions to be answered." Strago was pleased that his voice did not shake, and that he was able to keep from revealing how unnerved he was. If he could stand up to the thing, perhaps it would answer some of his many questions. 

To Strago's surprise, the giant smiled, something he hadn't thought the metal lips were capable of. And it spoke again: "I know that you do. And they will be answered, in time." The smile disappeared. "But not now; not enough time." 

Strago stared narrowly at the brown giant. After a second of thought, he decided to press his position. "But I have many. Who . . . What are you?" 

The thing sighed, a burst of vapor erupting from the mouth. "Well, I can tell you that much. I am called Golem." It paused before going on. "I am—er, was—an Esper." 

Strago's legs gave way as if the bones had been reduced to dust, and he fell to his knees. An Esper!!_ The thought almost made him fall to the ground completely, but he kept his balance, supporting himself with an arm. _

Golem nodded. "All your life, you've been told that we were all sealed away in another world, yes?" He paused for Strago to nod. "Yes. If it's any consolation, you're already handling this better than most people do when we reveal ourselves. Most people don't believe we exist at all, and think they've lost their sanity when we reveal ourselves to them. Often, they do_ lose it. That's why we stay hidden, you see." Golem paused. "Part of the reason." _

Strago just knelt there, staring with wide eyes. 

After a time, Golem shook its head, muttering, "This will not do." It stepped toward Strago, covering the entire twenty-odd paces in two strides. Bending to one knee, it placed a mammoth finger atop Strago's head. 

In an instant, Strago was on his feet. Somehow. He wasn't standing, but was being held up by some unseen force. His eyes became even wider than before, if that was possible. He opened his mouth and tried to scream, but only quick, sharp breaths escaped his throat. The bland world around him seemed to ripple as if the air was a disturbed liquid, and colour suddenly burst into everything. 

Golem's eyes closed, and it glowed as brightly as it had when it was a shining gemstone. Light from nowhere rushed to converge in two bright beads of blinding white, like little stars. The stars moved around Golem, a quick and beautiful orbit, moving faster and faster and leaving a radiant trail behind. Then, after a few seconds, the two beads of light shot toward Strago. They stopped just above his head, spun around each other for a moment, and then shattered into countless tiny luminous points. 

They rained down on Strago, moving over and around and through him. He convulsed, shook violently for a second, before becoming stiff. Stretched out as long as possible without being torn in two, arms extended out to either side, and head thrown back, he hovered a few inched from the ground for a second. 

Golem lifted his hand and stood up. The glowing ceased, and the radiant rain was done. Strago's body relaxed and he dropped the two or three inches to the ground, landing on his feet. He blinked and looked around. The world was grey again. 

Golem spoke up. "That should solve the problem of your broken jaw." 

Strago's hands were on his face as soon as the words left Golem's mouth. He felt his chin, his mouth, his teeth, the sides of his face. My jaw wasn't broken. . . . 

Golem stared at the sky for a moment, then looked back to Strago. "Not much time, now." 

Strago was trying to make sense of everything. "My jaw wasn't broken. I think I'd have known if it was, right? I mean, having a broken bone . . . it hurts." 

Golem sighed again, another loud burst of steam. "This is a sort of dream, Strago. Here, you only feel what I want you to feel." Strago's features took on a quizzical look, and Golem went on. "My power is not what it once was; we Espers tend to lose a lot in death, you understand. The only reason I am able to affect you at all is that my corpse is in your belt pouch." 

Strago's attempts to make sense of the situation were not successful. ". . . Corpse?" 

"Yes. You see, when we die, the -" Golem looked at the sky again, then shook his head. "Well, there is no time to explain that now. It's not important anyway." Strago made to complain, to demand an explanation, but Golem raised his hand and Strago was silent. Golem nodded and continued. "I understand that you have a need to know these things, and you will know them in time. As you say, that's why you're on this journey. That is what's important. I brought you here, that I might speak to you about your journey. It seems that you've run into a bit of trouble." Strago nodded, and Golem continued. "Well, it's too late to do anything about that, and it wasn't your fault anyway. But I am concerned. About several things, actually. While I was able to help you with your injuries, I cannot reach out to your friends. The younger one was beaten, yes? Yes, well I am afraid that I can't help him. That is unfortunate." 

Strago's confusion was replaced with concern for a moment. Elam? Elam is hurt badly?_ Strago tried to yell out at Golem, to ask why it couldn't help Elam, but he still couldn't speak. _

Golem kept talking, though. "But the main reason I brought you here, the main reason I helped you, was to make sure that you understand that you must get away from your captors as soon as possible. My people have a large stake in your journey, and that is my greatest concern. I need you to reach your destination, to warn my brother so that he might warn the others. Right now, you're not doing well to accomplish that goal." 

Strago tried to yell again, but couldn't. He questioned with his eyes, or tried to. What does it mean? We just got slowed down a bit. As soon as I wake up, we'll keep moving.

Golem seemed to know Strago's thoughts. "You were making good time, but not now. How are you to reach Jidoor in time when you have moved almost a week in the wrong direction?" 

Wrong direction? _ Strago was about to try another yell, but he didn't have a chance. The World rippled again, and Golem seemed to slide away, faster and faster until it was gone over the faraway horizon. Everything became darker, and darker, and darker. _

The blackness rippled. 

*******************


End file.
